


Saint Bartholomew’s Centre for Submissives

by hoomhum



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - BDSM, Dom Lestrade, Dom/sub, Emotional Abuse, Eventual Happy Ending, It's going to get worse before it gets better, M/M, Multi, Past Abuse, Past Sexual Abuse, Physical Abuse, Sub Sherlock, a story about overcoming abuse, additional tags and warnings to be added as they come up, the system is flawed
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-11
Updated: 2018-12-03
Packaged: 2018-12-14 04:18:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 37,924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11775357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hoomhum/pseuds/hoomhum
Summary: Sherlock cautiously turned his hand over so that they were palm to palm. It was easier to watch Lestrade’s hand as he listened and tried to process what the man was telling him.“Now here at Bart’s we provide retraining and rehabilitation programs for subs that are struggling. Sometimes subs lose their way-- maybe they are placed with a Dom who doesn’t suit them and they adjust badly. They go to the retraining program. Then there are subs that come to us after some kind of trauma or abuse. They go into the rehabilitation program.”





	1. Chapter 1

At precisely a quarter after nine the door to Greg’s office slammed open, admitting three people. Two wore the standard black uniforms of the city’s premiere sub transport agency. The third, held between them with no small amount of effort, was a skinny, struggling young man.

As soon as they got him in the chair and began strapping him down, Greg reached out to gently stroke the sub’s hair. It was long and a bit greasy, but the sub seemed to lean in just a tiny bit to the reassurance.

“Easy now, it’ll be alright,” Greg told the young man softly as the transport goons connected the straps that kept his arms and legs in place against the bondage chair. Another strap was fastened across his throat, holding his head still and allowing Greg to raise the retinal scanner and get a reading.

He dismissed the other men with a wave; transport agencies were a necessary evil when it came to moving unaccompanied subs across the city. They were little more than muscle meant to reassure Dominants, never giving a care to the comfort of the sub in question. The sub in front of him seemed to relax a bit more with them gone, though he still held himself tensed against the restraints.

Greg sent the data from the scan to his desktop and put his phone down, moving to rub the submissive’s shoulder soothingly. “I know those blokes can be a bit brusque, but it’s all right. You’re quite safe now… Sherlock, isn’t it?”

“Don’t touch me,” the sub mumbled, trying to pull away despite his restraints. “I don’t—I don’t want you to touch me, just leave me alone!” His voice raised in a shout and Greg quickly withdrew.

“Okay,” he said, moving back around to his desk. “I hear you, there’s no need to yell. I just want you to relax. You’re very tense and I can tell you’re upset. Maybe you can tell me why you’re here? Did something happen at your last placement?”

He sat down at his desk, glancing at the file open on his computer. Sherlock Holmes, twenty-three years of age, and on his seventh dominant. Really, it was surprising he hadn’t been sent in for retraining before now.

“Fuck off,” Sherlock said, clearly trying to look away. The strap around his neck kept him from doing so comfortably and his hands clenched into fists. “It doesn’t matter. You’re just gonna give me to someone else.”

Greg sighed and crossed the room, undoing that single strap to give the sub a measure of comfort, small though it was.

“I’m not going to ‘give’ you to anyone. You’re checked in here at St Bart’s and you’re going to stay until you graduate the program. So I’ll ask you again: did something happen at your last placement?”

Sherlock said nothing for a moment, clearly processing that. When he finally spoke it was almost too quiet to hear. “He hurt me. He was an idiot.”

“He hurt you?” It looked like Sherlock was trying to curl up into a ball, despite the restraints. His gaze was lowered, his expression angry.

“He thought it was funny,” he spat. “Is that what you want to hear? He hurt me and he laughed when he did it.”

Greg frowned, troubled both by Sherlock’s words and his reaction. What Sherlock was describing didn’t sound like a standard punishment. It sounded more like abuse.

“Was this a regular occurrence?” he asked carefully,  reaching out to stroke the sub’s hair again. He’d reacted well to it before. “I can’t do anything unless you tell me what happened.”

All at once the fight seemed to go out of the young man. He deflated, head tipping just slightly against the gentle hand in his hair. “You can’t do anything at all. He was my master. He’s allowed to do whatever he wants.”

“That isn’t true. There are laws about this sort of thing, to keep subs safe. Abuse is real and when it happens, we need to know about it here at the center.”

Sherlock shook his head, but didn’t otherwise respond to that, which only worried Greg more. “You don’t have to tell me. We could take you down to the exam room, let the evidence speak for itself?”

“No!” Sherlock’s eyes shot open from where they’d drifted closed. His whole body trembled as he shook his head more frantically this time. “No, please, don’t—don’t take me to hospital, I don’t—I’ll be good, I promise, I will!”

“Sh, now, it’s alright,” Greg said, trying to soothe the young man. “I wasn’t talking about a hospital—“

“I’ll do anything, I—“

“Sherlock, I am not taking you to a hospital,” he said firmly, cutting off the sub’s begging. “We have a doctor on staff, but we don’t have to do that now either. What I want is to calm you down, so if that means putting off this talk that’s alright. We’ll do something else. How about a bath and a meal? How does that sound?”

“I can wash myself. Will you let me do it myself?”

“There’s a privacy barrier,” Greg explained, still gently stroking the submissive’s hair. “I have to be in the room, but you can wash yourself, that’s no problem.”

The longer he spoke with Sherlock, the more concerned he felt. This didn’t seem like a cut and dry retraining case, not with how jumpy and scared the sub was. He was able to calm the young man with just a few gentle touches; it was almost as though Sherlock was unused to being treated like this. Even as he explained that Sherlock wasn’t allowed to be unaccompanied just yet, the sub was stilling under his hands.

“I’m going to undo the restraints now,” he warned, moving around to kneel in front of Sherlock. “If you fight me, I’ll put them back. Do you understand?”

“I won’t fight.” Sherlock kept very still, watching Greg’s every move. “Please… don’t hurt me.”

True to his word, Sherlock didn’t struggle when the restraints were removed. Greg helped him to stand, noticing just how skinny and filthy he was as he did so, and led him out to the elevator. In short order they walked in to the communal bathroom on the sixth floor, which was open to all of the subs in Greg’s care. There was a separate room bisected by a curtain, behind which sat a tub.

Greg started the water and then stepped back to give Sherlock some space. “Pass me your clothes under the curtain, please,” he ordered. “I need to inspect them.”

Despite his earlier behavior, the submissive obeyed without question. Greg drew the curtain closed and retrieved a toiletry set, towel, and robe, which he passed beneath the curtain in exchange for the clothes.

“If you need anything, just ask. Take as long as you want.”

Greg listened for the splash as Sherlock climbed into the tub, before examining the clothes. They were threadbare and dirty. He wrote Sherlock’s initials on the tags, pausing when he noticed what appeared to be blood stains on the black pants. A proper punishment wouldn’t have allowed a sub to bleed freely like that; it was another indication that Sherlock’s case was more than it seemed.

“I’m going to send these down to the laundry,” he announced to the sub, once he had confirmed there was no contraband hidden in the pockets or sewn into the hems. “You’ll get them back tomorrow. I’ve got a set of sweats for you to wear in the meantime, alright?”

There was a hum of acknowledgment and further splashing as the sub behind the curtain washed himself. Greg waited patiently until he heard the sound of the plug being pulled.

“Can I have the other clothes?” Sherlock asked hesitantly.

“I’d like to examine you first,” Greg said, framing the command as a somewhat neutral question. “If you really don’t want that, I’ll give them to you but I ask that you please tell me if you’re injured. It’s important, so I can make sure you’re taken care of.”

There was a long moment of silence. Greg was certain that the sub was about to refuse, and was thus surprised when Sherlock pulled back the curtain. It was in part due to that surprise that he was unable to keep his expression neutral at the sight before him.

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock said quickly, ducking his head and folding his arms over his chest. Doing so didn’t hide the numerous scars over his torso or the weeping burns that marked his thighs. “They’re cigarette burns. I—I wasn’t good enough. He didn’t let me cover them since he was getting rid of me.”

Greg forced himself to take a deep breath, pushing down the anger that was coursing through his veins. How could someone do that to a sub? To treat them like—He shook his head, cutting off that thought before it could fully form.

“Thank you for showing me,” he said instead, gently rubbing Sherlock’s arm. “It’s very good of you to trust me. We have a doctor on staff, just upstairs, and he can treat those so they don’t fester anymore.”

“You aren’t mad?” Sherlock asked, sounding terribly young and afraid as Greg passed him a set of pajama bottoms and a soft cotton t-shirt.

“Not at you,” Greg promised. He decided then and there to take Sherlock off of the retraining list and add him to the rehabilitation program instead. Someone, or several someones, had been hurting this sub. That stopped now.

 

~

 

Sherlock was ninety percent sure that this was a trap or some kind of elaborate test set up by this new master. He didn’t understand the why of it all, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t going to do his best to make it through unscathed. He’d had a lapse, fighting the transport agency like that, but he’d been frightened and unsure what was happening to him. This man, Greg Lestrade, according to the nameplate beside the office door, hadn’t been angry or punished him for that.

At least, he hadn’t yet.

After the bath, which was lovely and warm, he’d let Lestrade examine him. Clean for the first time in weeks, he’d shown off the wounds from his previous master, thinking that he’d do anything to have regular access to warm water in which to bathe. He felt human again, even with Lestrade scowling at the nasty burns.

He was surprised when, true to his word, the Dominant had led him upstairs and into a small doctor’s office. It seemed he really did intend to treat the wounds, rather than just make his own marks over them as another Dominant might have done.

The doctor’s office was more homey than clinical, but the sight of a man in a lab coat was enough to have Sherlock backtracking. He didn’t get far, accidentally bumping into Lestrade, who put a gentle hand on his shoulder

“This is Doctor Stamford,” he said, urging Sherlock toward the medical bench in the corner. “Doctor, this is Sherlock Holmes. He’s new to the program and has some nasty burns that need treating.”

“Call me Mike,” the doctor said, his smile dropping a bit as Lestrade explained the reason for their visit. “Come on over, Sherlock, and I’ll get you sorted.”

Sherlock’s knees locked against Lestrade’s urging. It was only thanks to the man’s quick reflexes that he didn’t fall on his face.

“All right, Sherlock?” Lestrade asked, voice soft and concerned. Sherlock wondered when he would drop the act and start treating him normally. “I don’t have to be here for this, if you want some privacy. Do you want me to go?”

Sherlock knew better than to tell a Dominant that he didn’t want them around. He wasn’t stupid or suicidal. He was just frozen. This was probably nothing to worry about. Stamford seemed congenial and he’d probably just disinfect and cover the worst of the burns. It might hurt, but not any more than they already did. Still, he couldn’t get himself to walk forward.

“It’s fine,” he managed, before the silence went on for too long. Both Lestrade and Stamford were watching him. “I’m fine, without… without anything.”

“Sherlock,” Lestrade said, and now there was some firmness in his voice, a hint of warning that had been missing up until now. “If we don’t treat those burns, they could get infected and make you very sick. We don’t want that. Now I can be in here or I can wait outside, your choice, but either way you’re going to need to lower your trousers and sit down so that the doctor can work.”

“What do you say, hm?” Stamford added, already pulling on gloves. He’d retrieved a number of supplies. Alcohol wipes, pain numbing cream, gauze and tape. Nothing invasive. Nothing, really, that could hurt him.

Nevertheless, his breathing quickened and he could feel himself trembling. His field of vision narrowed onto the box of gloves. Large. Medical Grade. A powder blue latex alternative. He didn’t register falling to his knees.

“Sherlock?”

He was sitting on the bench, pajama pants hanging around his ankles. He looked down: gauze covered large swathes of his thighs, stark white against his pale skin. Every single round burn was covered and already the pain was lessening.

“Sherlock?” Lestrade was beside him, holding one of his hands and trying to catch his gaze. Sherlock met his eyes and the Dominant seemed to relax a bit at that, giving him a relieved smile. “Hey there. You disappeared for a bit.”

Sherlock didn’t reply.

“It’s alright, it’s done now,” Lestrade said, giving his hand a small squeeze. “I can tell you were very frightened, but you did well. When you’re up to it, we can go get something to eat. Maybe a nice cup of tea?

Sherlock nodded, still feeling a bit off kilter but wanting to get out of this room. It might not be a hospital, but it was just as bad. Lestrade helped him to his feet and he was able to redress properly, which helped him to feel more normal.

“The cafeteria is in the basement,” the Dominant told him, leading him out to the hallway and toward the elevator. He kept holding Sherlock’s hand, like he was a wayward child. Part of Sherlock was annoyed by that, but another part of him enjoyed the simple reassurance. “It’s like this: floor eight is for the doctor and therapists, six and seven are Acting Dom offices and meeting rooms, and two through five are the sub rooms—I’ll show you yours after we eat. The rec room, music room, art room, and computer room are all on the first floor. Ground is reception— see, you need a key to get there. It’s off limits to unaccompanied subs.”

Lestrade seemed to take Sherlock’s expression for confusion. He patted Sherlock’s shoulder and told him. “There are signs on every floor, so don’t worry about remembering what’s where. I’ll give you a proper tour after lunch.”

They exited the elevator to a large cafeteria which reminded Sherlock somewhat of grade school. There was a salad bar and a hot food line; a cooler full of yoghurts, fruit, and drinks. The rest of the room was filled with many tables and booths, set up to seat anywhere from two to four people each. There were maybe a dozen others in the room, a few sitting near one another, but for the most part it was not crowded.

“They’re just pulling the breakfast items,” Lestrade explained, handing Sherlock a tray and a plate. “Lunch starts at eleven, but there’s always food out to snack on. Get whatever you want.”

He then turned his back to Sherlock and went down the line, filling his own plate and tray.

Sherlock’s stomach twisted at the sight of so much food. This was definitely some kind of test. If only he knew what it was Lestrade was testing. Uncomfortable with the strangers in the room, he hurried after the Dominant. He scooped up a bit of fruit salad and selected a yogurt before fixing himself a cup of tea when Lestrade moved to the drinks stand. In short order they were seated at a booth in the corner of the room.

“You’ve been very quiet,” Lestrade said as he began to eat. He’d filled his plate with a full English breakfast, complete with grilled tomatoes, mushrooms, bacon and eggs.  “If you have any questions for me, ever, you’re welcome to ask them. I’m here as a resource for you. I’m happy to help any way I can.”

Sherlock speared a grape with his fork, eying it instead of the man in front of him. “When will I get your collar?”

He looked up as Lestrade coughed, choking briefly on his latest bite at Sherlock’s words.

“You won’t,” he said. Sherlock frowned. Had he already ruined his chances with this one? Already he was to be sent away to live elsewhere? “Sherlock… what were you told about coming here?”

He shook his head, keeping his gaze down.  Eyes averted, he wasn’t prepared for the hand that landed on his own.

“Let’s start again, then,” Lestrade said, giving him a small smile when he looked up again. “My name is Greg Lestrade, and I’ll be your Acting Dom while you’re here at St Bart’s. That is, Saint Bartholomew’s Centre for Submissives.”

Sherlock cautiously turned his hand over so that they were palm to palm. It was easier to watch Lestrade’s hand as he listened and tried to process what the man was telling him.

“Now here at Bart’s we provide retraining and rehabilitation programs for subs that are struggling. Sometimes subs lose their way-- maybe they are placed with a Dom who doesn’t suit them and they adjust badly. They go to the retraining program. Then there are subs that come to us after some kind of trauma or abuse. They go into the rehabilitation program.”

Sherlock said nothing. Lestrade twined their fingers together and gave his hand a little squeeze. “When you came in, I thought you would be one of the former. You were acting out because you were scared, which is completely understandable. But given what you’ve told me about your last Dom, I think you belong in the latter program. A Dom shouldn’t be hurting you just for his own pleasure, not if you don’t want it. Did you want him to hurt you?”

It was definitely a trap. Probably. Now that he was calm, now that he was thinking rationally he knew that he shouldn’t criticize his last Dom. Doms knew best, after all, and they didn’t usually like subs thinking otherwise. But Lestrade was asking. He was asking gently and he hadn’t raised his voice or his hand to Sherlock yet, not even when he’d definitely deserved it. There was something else going on here and maybe, just maybe it was exactly what Lestrade said it was.

“No,” he said, in a very quiet voice. He squeezed Lestrade’s hand back. “I didn’t.”

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your feedback and for sticking with me. Just as a general rule: updates will be slow, like in the every few months range because I have a few different projects I'm working on and I'm about to start a new job. I decided to post this now instead of waiting to finish the second half with Greg's POV. Are shorter chapters sooner better, or do you like longer chapters despite the wait? Any opinions? Anyway, hope you enjoy this chapter!
> 
> TRIGGER WARNING: This chapter opens with a graphic flashback of the cigarette burning experiences mentioned in the previous chapter. Take care of yourselves and skip ahead if that would upset you. Italics are the flashback.

_“Do you know what they call them, the Doms in those centers?”_

_Sherlock shook his head mutely, trying and failing and to pull his body up towards the head of the bed. His Master grabbed at his ankle and dragged him roughly back down until he was stretched completely out. The rope around his wrists dug into the pale skin and his shoulders ached from the uncomfortable position._

_“Breakers, Shirley,” he said, blowing smoke into his face and grinning when Sherlock coughed. “Sub breakers, slave breakers, take your pick.”_

_He brought the cigarette’s glowing tip down on Sherlock’s thigh, leaning over the sub’s calves to hold him still as he yelled and struggled._

_“Now you, you’re broken already,” he continued, tossing the extinguished stub aside and tightening his grip on Sherlock’s calves. “But that won’t stop them beating the shit out of you.”_

_“Please,” Sherlock begged. The burn, the latest of several that dotted the thin skin of his inner thighs, blistered. It felt as though a small pool of acid was melting through his thigh. “Please, don’t—_ please _!”_

_His master pressed a thumb against one of yesterday’s burns, irritating the already inflamed skin. “If they don’t kill you,” he began thoughtfully. “Then I’ll come pick you up in a week or two, hm? Just long enough for me to take care of business.”_

_He scratched his finely manicured nails down the length of Sherlock’s thigh once, then again just to make him scream and beg even more._

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock fell backward as the door he’d been sitting against opened behind him. Too lost in his memories to catch himself properly, his head hit the carpet and he blinked up at the Dom that had opened the door. Lestrade was on his knees in a moment, dropping the file folder in his hand in favor of helping Sherlock upright again.

“I’m sorry,” he said, smoothing a hand through Sherlock’s curls. “You weren’t answering, so I used the master key. We only use it in case of emergency though, I promise. This is your space and your privacy is important. Next time just tell me to bugger off and I will, alright?”

Sherlock wasn’t sure how to respond to that, but he nodded. The Dom had left him alone to settle in to his new room after lunch and, though he was loath to admit it, Sherlock had gotten a bit overwhelmed.

Compared to the apartments of his previous Doms, the space was nothing. It reminded him of a dorm room, or perhaps of a hotel. There was a bed, dresser, desk, and chair. On the far side of the room was a closet with a sliding door and what he assumed to be a private loo. Before he’d left, Lestrade had promised that this was his room. All his.

How could that be?

“I wanted to check in on you,” Lestrade went on, either failing to notice or not minding Sherlock’s distraction. “Some of our boys aren’t used to being alone at first and I know that this can be a lot to take in. I brought you some things, too, some pamphlets that go over our program and what you can expect while you’re here, that sort of thing.”

Lestrade paused for a moment and Sherlock realized that he’d been leaning into the man. He straightened up, folding his legs beneath himself to kneel properly and support his own weight.

“Sherlock, can you read?”

That… well, that wasn’t why Sherlock had thought Lestrade had paused. He had thought it was a reprimand in waiting, distaste at seeing a sub so needy, so incapable.

“It’s alright if you can’t,” Lestrade said in response to Sherlock’s surprised silence. “The subs here, some of the rehabbers especially, were placed at a young age and not allowed to continue school. If that happened to you, we can help you learn and catch up. I just wanted to know before I gave you all these papers. I also brought you a catalog; you came in with nothing, so you’ll get to pick out a few things, clothing and the like. I can walk you through that if you want or just leave you to it?”

Though that wasn’t a direct question, it seemed that Lestrade expected some kind of answer. He was still on the floor next to Sherlock, no longer touching him, but watching him carefully. Sherlock wasn’t sure what to say. Lestrade’s original question had caught him off guard; he hadn’t been allowed to continue school, but he still knew how to read. Was that important? He still wasn’t convinced that there was no wrong answer. Just because he hadn’t been punished so far didn’t mean that he wouldn’t be.

“I don’t think it’s doing either of us any good to be on the floor like this,” the Dom said after another long moment of silence. “And I’d like to go over some of this with you. We can do it in your room, or in my office. You don’t have to say anything, just nod or shake your head. Do you want to talk in your room?”

Sherlock nodded, grateful for the simple framing and options. He was still overwhelmed and uncertain, still a bit shaken from his earlier flashback. Grateful for the casual touch and reassurance, he accepted Lestrade’s help up. The Dom ushered him into the room and closed the door. He gestured for Sherlock to sit on the bed and sat down himself in the desk chair, placing his folder of documents on the desk.

“I’ll start by telling you a little about St. Bart’s and the rehabilitation program,” he began, turning to face Sherlock with an earnest expression. “Now that you’ve been admitted, you’re a level one in the program. Level one is about dealing with the abuse you’ve suffered, building up your confidence, and helping you to figure out who you are as a sub and what you need.”

Now Sherlock felt more than a little lost. Building up his confidence? This was so far from what he’d been told to expect that it was almost impossible to believe. He flinched backward slightly when Lestrade pulled free a bundle of material from his pocket.

“As ID, you’ll need to choose a collar, lanyard or bracelet. Level one is red, so all the Doms here will treat you appropriate to your program and your status. Mostly that means they’ll leave you alone unless you’re in crisis. Do you know which you would like?”

Sherlock remembered rather vividly the way that his master had torn the collar from his throat. He’d been wearing one on and off since the age of fifteen, but now the thought made him feel rather ill.

“A bracelet?” It truly did seem that Lestrade didn’t care which he chose. In fact, when he spoke the Dom smiled at him and took out a marker, sketching ‘SH RH’ on the band of a paper bracelet.

“That’s a perfectly fine choice,” he said, reaching out to affix the bracelet around Sherlock’s wrist. The words of praise struck a chord in Sherlock’s chest, surprising him. “This one is just temporary, but we’ll get a nicer one printed up for you soon. Your initials to identify you and the RH for ‘rehabilitation’.”

Before the Dom could retreat Sherlock very carefully caught his hand, much as he had done in the cafeteria a few hours prior. Lestrade didn’t snap or pull away; instead he sat down gently on the edge of the bed. They were close enough to touch, but while Lestrade didn’t push him away, he also didn’t grab or manhandle him. It was only their fingers that were intertwined.

“Am I yours?” Sherlock asked, not looking up at the Dom’s face, but at the red bracelet fastened loosely around his wrist instead. It was not the symbol of ownership he had expected. Lestrade had told him earlier he wouldn’t receive a collar, but his place here, his place with this Dom still didn’t make sense.

“Right now, Sherlock, you are legally the responsibility of St Bart’s—my responsibility. But here I’m you’re Acting Dom and here, in the rehabilitation program, the only thing that means is that I can stop you from hurting yourself and others. I won’t, I _can’t_ make you do anything else. That’s what Level One Rehab means. You do what you need to in order to heal. I’ll help you, guide you, provide resources and whatever else you need, but your priority is you.”

“Why?” Sherlock turned slightly toward Lestrade. “He—He’s just going to come back for me. He said so.”

Lestrade frowned at that and shook his head. “The other thing I can do is stop you from going to anyone who would hurt you. You’re not going back. Not even if he begs for you.”

Sherlock realized belatedly that his grip on the Dom’s hand had turned tight, both their knuckles turned white from the strain. With some effort he loosened it and let go, but Lestrade didn’t let him go far. Broadcasting his actions to give Sherlock warning, Lestrade reached out and pulled Sherlock into an embrace. Sherlock stiffened at first, but when Lestrade made no move to force him into anything, holding him loosely enough that he could easily break away, he let himself relax a bit. Even if it was just a sham he would take the proffered comfort for now. Didn’t he deserve that much, at least?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Regarding characterization: I realize on the surface that this story may seem super wacky and OOC, but it deals with an iteration of Sherlock Holmes who has a) lived in a society structured in a pretty different way from our own and b) endured various forms of emotional and physical abuse since the age of fifteen. If that doesn't put you off, I appreciate you bearing with me.
> 
> Also, I'm sorry Greg talks so much. In the original notes it's literally 3000 words of him describing every level of the program and the logistics of the center. I tried to make it a bit more interesting/shorter than that.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have a very long chapter, friends. I know it's been a while, but hopefully this will satisfy you for a bit. Please heed the abuse tags, as some of that abuse and trauma is revisited in conversation. Take care. Thank you for reading!

If he was being perfectly honest. This was one of Greg's favorite parts of the intake process. There was something magical about watching a sub slowly open up, slowly realize that their stay at St. Barts was not a death sentence, but a new start. He sat with Sherlock, one arm looped casually around the subs shoulders as he walked him through the catalog.  
  
"These things will be yours," he explained. "Yours to keep, and we provide them to help make you comfortable and happy during your stay here. So pick what you like."   
  
It didn't take long for Sherlock to work through picking the appropriate numbers of shirts and trousers, pajamas, shoes, or the socks and pants kit he preferred. He hesitated when he reached the outerwear, though, tapping the pen against is lips.

"It was cold when they brought me in," he said softly, voice almost contemplative. "Will… will I have to go out often?"

"Not at all," Greg assured him. "You won't be leaving the building until level three, at least, unless you want to go out to the balcony for some fresh air. And some of the boys just wrap up in their duvets to do that. You don't have to pick everything now."

Sherlock hummed and nodded, flipping to the next section in the catalog, which was filled with items for the bedroom and bathroom. There were extra pillows, fuzzy blankets, small fans, electric toothbrushes, stuffed animals, and all other manner of things that might make a sub feel more at home.

"You get five items from this section," Greg explained, smiling a bit at the way Sherlock's eyes widened.

"I can have anything I want?" he repeated, reverently drawing a finger over the glossy pictures.

"Five items from here, then there's another section behind it: personal items. You can earn points to spend on items in that one, sort of like a reward catalog. Coming in you get ten points. Some items cost five points, some only cost one. You can spend them however you want, or save them up if you've got your eye on something. And I can help you with the math, if you need it."

He carefully flipped the page to show off the items in the rewards catalog. There were journals, nice pens, and other little nicknacks, as well as  clothing accessories like watches and jewelry; there were posters a sub could hang in their room, and various toys of both an innocent and sexual nature.

Greg could tell when Sherlock noticed the vibrators and lube by the way his whole body tensed up. He had held out some small hope that Sherlock hadn't been sexually abused, but now he suspected that he might have been. Immediately he shifted away, pulling back his arm.

"If you need it, I do have a little mini-catalog without the more… intimate items," he told Sherlock. "I can get that for you. Or-- do you need some space?" The sub was lighting up with a heavy blush, but he shook his head.

"No, it's… it's fine," Sherlock said, though he flipped away from the personal items page again rather quickly. Instead he focused on the bedroom and bathroom offerings. "Does it get warm here at night?"

"It depends who you ask," Greg said with a small smile. "Some of the boys say it gets cold once we turn the AC on in the summer, but I've always felt comfortable."

"Can I wait to choose some of these until tomorrow?"

"Of course. I can see you're a very practical person, Sherlock. That's a very mature trait, especially for such a young sub." He offered the young man an encouraging grin. "Just make sure to get something fun, too."

Though he was still blushing terribly, Sherlock flipped between the two sections and began to pick out items. He selected an electric toothbrush and a pillow from the bed/bath section, then circled the whiteboard and marker, journal, and pair of pens from personal items.

Greg watched, trying not to look as though he was staring, as the young man hesitated and then circled the bottle of lube as well, before quickly flipping back to bed/bath and picking out a small stuffed otter. Sherlock gave a decisive nod and passed the catalog back.

"Alright, is there anything you want to wait on? I'll mark up the form and send it in for the things you're sure about so we can get them to you ASAP."

Sherlock chewed his lip for a moment. "I'm sure about the clothes. And the, uh. The otter. But can I wait on the rest?"

"Of course," Greg said with a smile. He squeezed the sub's shoulder reassuringly. "You're doing so well, Sherlock. Really. Now, I'll just pop up to my office and send this on, then I was wondering if you would be up to talking a bit about what's happened to you."

Sherlock immediately looked down at the duvet, uncertainty clear in his expression.

"If not, I have a form with tick boxes and a little space for writing. It's just so I can know what we're going in with and how best to help you."

He hoped that the sub would be comfortable enough now to do that. Usually by this point he had enough info to piece things together for himself, but Sherlock had clammed up earlier and refused to share much beyond the fact that his previous master had hurt him against his will. That was enough to warrant placing him in the rehab program, but his file had said he'd been transferred seven times. Greg doubted that this last master was the only abuser Sherlock had endured.

"I'll… try?" Sherlock said, after a long pause. He still refused to look up, but that was fine by Greg. He'd done this bit through a closed door before to make a sub comfortable. "But can you bring the form? Just in case?"

"Of course," Greg told him, climbing to his feet. "And if you need to stop, ever, you just tell me. You're doing such a fantastic job, Sherlock, really. I appreciate that you're willing to try. I'll be back in just a mo."

Greg left the sub with a reassuring smile and closed the door behind him, sensing that Sherlock wasn't up to meeting the rest of the floor just yet. In his office he faxed the form for Sherlock's belongings, then gathered up a few juice boxes and granola bars to take down. Sherlock had barely touched his meager lunch and it wasn't uncommon for a sub to want a stash of food for their room.

Finally he printed a copy of the intake form and headed downstairs again, dread already pooling in his stomach at the thought of what could have made such a bright young sub so distrustful.

~

While Lestrade was gone, Sherlock tugged the duvet from the bed and wrapped himself up in it, pulling the soft cover over his head like a hood. He felt better wrapped up, like there was some magical barrier around him now that would stop anyone from hurting him.

"Sherlock?" There was a knock at his door, accompanied by the Dom's voice and, after a moment, Sherlock called out to invite him in.

"Next time I come back am I going to find you've built a fort?" Greg asked as he entered, with a soft smile that showed he wasn't angry. In fact, he sat down at the desk, giving Sherlock space which he greatly appreciated.

"Now Sherlock, what you've told me about your last Dominant is enough to enroll you in the rehabilitation program, but knowing more about your past experiences can help us to better help you. Your file said you've had seven different dominants. Is that true?"

"Yes," Sherlock replied, keeping his gaze down and tucking his chin into the duvet. If he just had to answer questions then maybe he could get through this. Hopefully he wouldn't be found at fault and punished for driving his dominants to get rid of him.

"Alright, and how old were you when you were first matched?" Lestrade was watching him, he could tell, and he held a pen, apparently ready to take notes.

"Fifteen," Sherlock told him softly. "My parents lied on the form. They just wanted to get rid of me." He knew legally a sub could not be matched with a Dominant until the age of sixteen, but that hadn't stopped them. Lestrade made a note, but didn't react otherwise.

"Can you tell me about your first Dom? Male, female? Their name, how they treated you, how long you were with them…?"

"Female," Sherlock said tightly, pulling his knees to his chest. "I don't remember her name. We weren't allowed to use it. She got tired of me quickly, maybe after half a year?"

"Was she abusive?" Lestrade pressed. "After she got 'tired of' you, how did you find your next Dominant?"

"She was… strict. She… I didn't have any training. I didn't know… anything. There were other subs in the house too, and she ranked us. Whoever she liked the least would get auctioned off when she got tired of them. It was always a private auction, with her friends."

"Would you be comfortable with me calling that emotional abuse, and manipulation? Did you ever feel like you had to do things you were uncomfortable with to please her, so she wouldn't auction you off?" Lestrade asked, making another note.

Surprised Sherlock looked up at him. He'd been expecting a reprimand. If only he'd been better, if only he'd been _good_ , maybe she wouldn't have gotten rid of him. Lestrade didn't seem to see it that way.

"No one wanted to be in the last rank," he admitted softly. "You-- you'd do anything not to be last. I don't know what it was, but I guess… you could say it was that."

"Who was your next Dom?"

He curled his fist in the duvet, squeezing tightly. "She sold me to a young man. His name was… it started with an A, I think. He gave me my first training."

He had thought he'd be safe with a new Dom, in a household where he was the only sub. He'd been wrong. The thought of it made bile rise in his throat.

"He said, the first night-- he said he didn't like the way I looked at him. So he made sure I'd never be able to meet his eye again. He… he tied me to a bed and left me there. I don't know how long. He brought me food and water, but he left me there for days, in my own-- my own filth. He said it was to break me." He hunched down in the duvet, hiding from Lestrade's gaze. This didn't seem like the type of place that would do that, but what if he'd just given them the idea for it?

"You're doing really well, Sherlock. This is so brave of you and you're working so hard. I'm very proud of you." Lestrade didn't sound disgusted as he spoke. He sounded honest. That was almost harder to accept. "How long were you with him? After the initial abusiveness did it get better, or worse?"

"He mostly left me alone after that," Sherlock replied softly. "He, uh-- he gave me a list of chores to do and made me do the shopping, but otherwise he ignored me. As long as I didn't get in his way or upset him, he didn't... he didn't do anything like that again."

He looked down at the dark blue duvet again, clenching his hands. "I was with him for... I think it was two years? It wasn't too bad. Boring, but... it was fine. He didn't hurt me."

"It must not have been easy though, worrying that it might happen again, that you'd displease him." Lestrade acknowledged. "Do you think you could continue? Tell me about how you went to your next home?"

"He dropped me off at one of those centers. They paid him and he just left me. I was there for six months before I was paired up with another man. He already had a sub, a man my age called Clay, and I didn't know why he wanted another one until I got to their house. Clay-- wanted a sub for himself. He wanted someone to push around. So I was a birthday gift, apparently."

"Having two Doms, that's not an easy feat. I have paired up subs in the past with a set but they wanted and were ready for it. Was it difficult to live with them?"

Sherlock frowned, giving a sort of half shrug. "It was okay at the beginning. They seemed very happy and wanted to do all sorts of things all together. But then the Dom-- the one that was always a Dom-- he started paying me more attention and Clay didn't like that. He would punish me for things our Dom let me do, and he'd-- he got very angry and jealous. I couldn't do anything right anymore. He threw a… I don't even know what it was. A lamp, or a book, or something at me. It knocked me out. When I woke up they were driving me to someone else's house and just left me there."

Lestrade sighed at that, rubbing at his temples. It didn't seem that his exasperation was directed at Sherlock though. "I'm very sorry that what started out good turned rotten for you. That Dom should have known better, even though he was trying to keep both of you happy. So how old were you at that point?" He made a few more notes before looking up again. "They didn't go through any kind of agency, just dropped you off at a new home?"

"I don't know how they knew her. I was… nineteen? I think?" He was beginning to disassociate from the stories. It was easier to talk as though they had happened to someone else. "She was an older woman, a sub, and there was no Dom in the house. She was widowed. She treated me… nicely. Like a son. Then a few months later her own son came home from uni for break and she gave me to him. I went back to school with him when he left again. I liked him the most. Felix. I got to go to some of his classes with him and he treated me well, when I wasn't distracting him."

Lestrade looked up sharply at that, the scratching of his pen pausing. "What do you mean, when you weren't distracting him?"

"He… I mean… I was his first sub and he'd never slept with anyone else before. So we, uh. We did a lot of that. He started falling behind because I was too distracting, so he would send me out of his room when he wanted to study." It was here, Sherlock thought, that Lestrade's patience would run out. It was inevitable. He closed his eyes so he wouldn't have to see. "There was a common room, and he would… he attached a lead to my collar and then to the radiator and left me there."

"That must not have been very nice," Lestrade offered gently. "Humiliating you when you hadn't done anything to deserve it."

"I had, though," Sherlock protested, a blush darkening his cheeks. He looked at the Dom from beneath his lashes. "I was too distracting. The other students, they thought so too. I didn't-- I didn't mean to be. I wasn't trying to be."

Lestrade stood suddenly and crossed the room to kneel down in front of Sherlock, forcing him to catch his gaze. "No, Sherlock, listen to me. If he couldn't concentrate with you around, then it was his responsibility to find you somewhere to go, or to go study somewhere else and let you stay. He was too irresponsible to have a sub if that's how he dealt with sharing space. You didn't do anything wrong. Can you say that? You didn't do _anything_ wrong."

Sherlock shook his head, tears beginning to well in his eyes. He shifted forward a bit, but didn't reach out for the Dom. "He-- the other students were the same, though. They touched me and they never left me alone. It was my fault. It must've been."

"Sherlock… did Felix pass you around? Can you explain this to me, when you were chained to the radiator could you not escape if someone came at you?"

He shook his head again, biting down hard on his lip. "He didn't want me running off or anyone to take me. That's why he always used the chain, so I'd be there when he came back."

"Sherlock," Greg said, reaching into the duvet to cup Sherlock's face gently and hold his gaze. " I'm not asking why he did that. I'm asking you if his actions caused you pain. What happened when he left you? That's what I want to know, because you're the only one in this story that I care about."

He took a few shuddering breaths, eyes slipping closed again, but didn't pull away from the touch. "The other students did what they wanted. Sometimes they were kind, but sometimes-- they would throw things at me, or take my clothes. Touch me. Hurt me… he didn't care. He'd just send me to shower and call for takeaway."

Lestrade was silent for a moment and pulled away. Sherlock wondered if he was finally disgusted with him, but had barely finished the thought when he was suddenly pulled into the other man's lap, duvet cocoon and all. The dom hugged him tightly, rubbing a soothing hand down his back.

"Sher, I'm so sorry. Nothing like that should have ever happened to you. He was cruel and uncaring, and the students who took advantage of your situation were scum. None of that was your fault. I know you don't trust me, you don't know me yet, but just know that nothing like that will ever happen to you here. You're safe."

Sherlock could feel himself shaking, his chest heaving as he tucked his face into Lestrade's neck. He didn't often think about his past and this was why. It made him feel sick and vulnerable. He hated how weak he was, but god, it felt good to be held and reassured like this. Lestrade didn't seem to mind his silence, but rocked him gently.

"You can cry if you need to. Cry, scream, whatever you want," he said, clutching at the duvet and brushing his cheek against Sherlock's shoulder. "I'm sorry, this was too much too fast. You did so well, Sherlock, so so well, but we're done for now. Can you forgive me for pushing you too hard?"

Sherlock nodded. It wasn't much to ask, considering all of the kindness Lestrade had shown him. He hadn't been trying to hurt Sherlock. It was part of the job. He let out a dry, hiccuping sob. "If you stay with me for a bit. If you stay, I'll forgive you," he managed breathlessly.

"I can stay as long as you want, Sherlock," Lestrade replied, placing a kiss to the crown of his head. "You just relax. I'm here. You're safe."

Sherlock didn't know how long he stayed like that, bundled in Lestrade's lap and held reassuringly. At some point he must have drifted off, because the next thing he knew he had awoken, startled when the man shifted beneath him.

"Hey there," Lestrade said, voice still impossibly gentle. "It seemed like you needed the rest-- I know our talk must have been exhausting-- so I didn't want to wake you, but it's getting late now. Are you hungry? You didn't eat much, earlier. If you want, we can go catch the tail end of dinner?"

Sherlock wasn't hungry, but he was thirsty and his head hurt rather badly from dehydration. He nodded.

"Alright then, up you get. Careful, you're rather tangled up…"

It took a moment for him to find his feet, but now that Lestrade had shown him compassion, he found himself unwilling to be too far from the man. Earlier that day he had tried to refuse his his touches, but now he let himself be helped up.  
  
The cafeteria was empty, save for the kitchen staff, which Sherlock supposed made sense when he noticed that the large clock on the wall read half past eight. Lestrade urged him to get what he wanted and stepped forward to grab his own tray and plate. He must have missed dinner acting as Sherlock's pillow all afternoon. Any other Dom of his would have been furious or, perhaps more accurately, would have dumped Sherlock to the bed or floor. Not sat with him for hours.   
  
Lestrade was different. This place, it seemed, was different.   
  
He stuck close to Lestrade as the man filled his plate, following him down the hot foods line, but choosing nothing for himself. When they reached the drinks section, Lestrade grabbed a fizzy water from the cooler, before looking curiously at Sherlock's empty hands.   
  
"The staff can whip you up something, if you didn't see anything you like," he offered. "Especially this time of night. They're happy to oblige."   
  
Sherlock shook his head, but glanced toward the tea stand. That was what he really wanted. His last Dom had refused to let him have tea. Refused to let him have anything he appeared to enjoy, really.  "I'm not hungry."   
  
"Go on, then," Lestrade said gently. "You go make yourself a cuppa, if that's what you'd like. I'll just get us a table."   
  
Despite how little he had trusted the Dom when they'd first met, Sherlock now found himself uneasy at the prospect of being apart from him. Lestrade was already walking away, though he chose the nearest table and, once he'd sat down, he caught Sherlock's gaze again.   
  
"D'you need a hand?"  

Sherlock shook his head, forcing away the fear that had frozen him in place. The tea stand was ten paces away, for god's sake! There was no one else in the room except for the kitchen staff, and they were technically in the kitchen and could only be seen and heard through the open service counter. No one could get to him without Lestrade seeing and if they did he would stop them, wouldn't he? He'd said that Sherlock was safe here. He could get his tea.  
  
Lestrade didn't press the matter, and if he found it odd how long it took for Sherlock to finally cross to the stand and fix himself a cup of tea he didn't say anything when Sherlock finally joined him at the table. Half the food on his plate was gone by then, but he didn't seem angry at Sherlock for dawdling.   
  
"I thought, if you're feeling up to it, I could tell you a little more about life at the centre?" Lestrade asked, once Sherlock had gotten comfortable. He went on when Sherlock nodded. "Now I told you that you won't be serving me, right? I'm your acting Dom, but that's not the same as your master and you're not going to be serving anyone but yourself while you're here. What you're going to be doing every day is therapy-- you'll meet your therapist tomorrow-- scheduled time with me to talk, and with your mentor, and at least one scheduled activity. We have classes: music, art, meditation, computer skills... there's a pretty good selection to choose from and they happen a few times a week. Music and art room are always open, though, so you can use those whenever you have free time."   
  
Sherlock's brain stuttered at that. There were parts he could latch onto and examine in depth later but for now he was simply agape at the resources being offered to him. Free time? Enrichment? That wasn't... that wasn't what subs were for.   
  
"Why?" he managed, steaming tea forgotten on the table. He hadn't even had a drink. It was bizarre enough that they were giving him things, that there was all this food, but to offer things like art? Music? Just for subs? It didn't make sense. "What... what's the catch?"   
  
There had to be one, even if Lestrade was shaking his head and putting down his fork.   
  
"No catch." The Dom reached out and took one of Sherlock's hands, squeezing it gently.   
  
"But... what do you get?" He didn't pull away. He'd gotten a sense, by now, that he could have and that Lestrade wouldn't punish him for it. But he didn't. He didn't want to.   
  
"Long term? Healthy, happy, well adjusted subs that graduate, go back into society and prove that the program our centre offers works," Lestrade told him with a small smile. "This isn't about us, though, Sherlock. This is about you. I'll tell you as many times as it takes to sink in. I know you're not used to it."   
  
"What if I fail?"   
  
He did begin to pull away then, but Lestrade's grip tightened minutely. Not enough to physically stop him, but enough to make him pause.   
  
"You can't. There's no flunking out of the program. Most subs progress from levels one to five-- often with a few demotions as well, because it's normal to have setbacks-- then start dating and find their match. I think that will happen with you. But if it doesn't, if you stay at level one for the rest of your life, you'll stay here too. Having therapy, going to classes, and eating. The food here is really excellent, you know. I gained at least a stone when I first started."   
  
Sherlock didn't reply, processing what Lestrade had said. There was so much to consider. On the one hand, he didn't deserve this. On the other, if his new Dom wanted it, who was he to argue? He'd be a fool to point out that any therapy or 'mentoring' would be wasted on him. If he was a good sub, he wouldn't have gone through seven placements. And yet... Lestrade spoke with such certainty, like this was normal. Like he was positive that Sherlock was worth this effort.   
  
"You... I have to do all of those things? You won't... you said we would talk, every day, but otherwise?" He'd barely made it to the tea stand on his own. There was no telling how many other Doms were in the building, or subs that might try to hurt him as well. He didn't know these people and he'd be trapped here among them. "You won't be here? I'll be alone?"   
  
Lestrade squeezed his hand again and looked considering. Finally he nodded.   
  
"Alright, I'm going to be honest with you. I do work long hours here, and there are a few emergency suites for those of us who work directly with subs, in case we need to stay the night. I am very dedicated to this job, Sherlock, so much so that I do not keep a sub of my own. That doesn't mean that I don't need breaks. I get Sunday off and I alternate working half days Friday and Saturday and getting Monday as a full day off too. Since you're new to the program though, if you would like, I can give you a beeper. If you need me you can press it at any time and I'll be there for you as fast as I can. I'll also introduce you to your alternate Dom next week, once you're settled. They'll be a back-up so that if I'm off premises you can have immediate access to care while I hightail it over here. Right now I only have you at level one, and only half my subs are rehabilitation. That means you are my top priority until you are settled and feel safe."   
  
Sherlock let out the breath he had been holding and ducked his head, squeezing Lestrade's hand in return. "Thank you. I-- I won't be a bother, I promise. What day is today?"   
  
Across from him, Lestrade looked up sharply. His tone when he spoke, though, was gentle. "It's Thursday, January 17, 2015... and don't worry, I'm not going to be taking the weekend off your first week on program. And you're not a bother. Taking care of you is my job. All I ask is that you let me know when you need me."   
  
"Oh." Sherlock filed that last bit away for later examination and focused on the date instead. "It was my birthday just a little while ago. I missed it." That in itself wasn't terribly unusual, but he did like to at least keep track of the years. His master had been so angry these past few months though, Sherlock had had little access to any news or calendars.   
  
"If you would like we can have a belated celebration for you," Lestrade offered, surprising him again. "When was your birthday? Do you know how old you are?"   
  
"January sixth," Sherlock said. "I don't... I mean, you don't have to do anything. It's not important. You said it's 2015? So I'm twenty-three, then."   
  
"Well, happy birthday. How about we reschedule your birthday for February sixth, just this once, give you something to look forward to?"   
  
Though he didn't understand why Lestrade would want to do such a thing, Sherlock nodded. "Okay," he agreed, finally wrapping his hands around his mug of tea. Lestrade picked up his fork again to finish his meal, though he paused with it halfway to his mouth.   
  
"I want to offer, Sherlock, because I pushed you so hard today and you seem worried about being alone--  I can bring in a cot and sleep in your room tonight, if that would make you feel safe."   
  
"Please." The small knot of anxiety that had been growing in his chest ever since Lestrade mentioned being off premises loosened. The thought of being alone in that room, with the memories of his past so recently stirred up, had shaken him terribly. "I-- thank you."   
  
"Of course, anything to make you feel safe," Lestrade replied with another of his soft smiles, before returning to his meal. "It's not quite bedtime, but we can turn in if you're tired, when we're done here, or I can give you a bit of a tour? Show you the art room and music room, at least, so you can see them?"

  
"What's in the music room?" Sherlock asked, trying very hard not to get his hopes up. If it was as the name implied, a room with instruments, it seemed unlikely that they would have a violin. He could imagine a piano, maybe plastic recorders or cheap percussive instruments.

Lestrade gave a small shrug and replied between bites. "It's just a regular old music room. We've got instruments, sheet music, even some little booths with headphones, if you want to listen to music. There's a little library of music theory books, too, for anyone interested in those."

"Is there--" Sherlock cut himself off, not wanting to sound so eager. If Lestrade knew what he liked then he could take it away. He didn't seem like the type of man who would do that, but there was no telling.

"Why don't I show you," Lestrade offered, wiping his face with a napkin and standing. "You can bring your tea with you, if you like."

Nodding, Sherlock scrambled to his feet after him. Lestrade took his empty tray to the window and then led the way back toward the elevator, pointing out places of interest as he went. There were the bathrooms, the community room, the art room. Sherlock barely listened, too lost in the thought that he might get to hold a violin again.

When finally they reached the room, Lestrade had to unlock it. He found the lights and gestured Sherlock inside.

"Anyone can come in here?" Sherlock asked, peering around.

It was a fairly large room, with several plastic chairs arranged in a small semi circle near the piano in the front. Towers of more stacked chairs lined one wall, and music stands were scattered all over the place, though most had been herded into one corner. On the wall opposite the chairs was a large set of wooden cubbies, each labeled meticulously with instrument names. The cubbies were filled with instrument cases.

There were at least a dozen guitars, some clarinets, cellos, and trombones. He saw trumpets, flutes, a large stringed bass and there on the far end: violins.

"There are some subs that aren't allowed to use the instruments after certain… incidents with them. But other than that, yes, provided there are no classes going on. You can use whatever you'd like," Lestrade told him, following him inside and making himself comfortable in one of the chairs. "Do you play?"

"I used to," Sherlock said. He traced the edge of the nearest cubbie before finally retrieving a violin. Moving reverently he opened the case and pulled the instrument free, running his fingers over the polished wood. It had been years since he'd last been able to play.

"I'd love to hear you," Lestrade offered softly.

"I haven't even held one in ages." Sherlock glanced away, feeling suddenly shy. "I'm not sure I still can." He tucked the violin beneath his chin and drew the bow over the strings lightly, just to test the sound.

"That's better than anyone else I hear scratching at that thing."

Sherlock barely heard the other man, pausing where he stood to make a few adjustments before playing a scale. The bow felt foreign in his hand, but his fingers remembered the positions as he launched into a short piece that he had always used to warm up as a child.

Before he'd presented, his life had been a good one. His parents often lamented the only way to get him to keep relatively still was during his music lessons, but had encouraged him with violin lessons and a child sized instrument of his own. He had loved that violin and treasured the memory of playing.

Recalling his lessons, he launched into some of his favorite melodies, practicing pieces and re-familiarizing himself with how it felt to play. Nothing else mattered as the instrument sang in his hands.

Eventually, Lestrade interrupted him. "Sherlock? It's nearly midnight. We need to get to bed, but you can always come down here tomorrow and play some more."

"Do the instruments have to stay in the music room?" Sherlock asked, lowering the violin regretfully. He moved to put it away, a bit amazed that he'd lost track of time so easily.

"I'm sorry, but they do. Not many play the violin though, and we have three of them, so I'm sure whenever you come down you'll be able to play." He did sound apologetic at that. Sherlock nodded.

"Thank you for showing me," he said softly, as Lestrade locked up again and led him back upstairs. "For-- letting me. I'd missed that."

"I let you stay up past bedtime, but that was the only thing I let you do. You can play the violin whenever you have free time. And you're welcome," Lestrade added with a small smile. When they reached the sixth floor, he nodded toward Sherlock's room. "You head in, I'm just going to grab the cot."

"I can help."

Lestrade looked at him for a moment, as though judging if Sherlock truly did just want to help or if he was afraid of being alone. Truth be told, it was the former. Playing had helped to relax him some, to remind him that there were still good things that he was allowed to have.

"Alright, then."

At the end of the hallway there was a closet with a keycode lock. Lestrade entered the code and let them in, flicking on the light to reveal several sets of shelves and a rolling cot.

"Why don't you grab a blanket and pillow for me?" Lestrade instructed, before selecting some changes of clothes from the shelves as well as what appeared to be a small toiletry kit. "All right?"

Sherlock nodded and they took the things to his room, setting up the cot in the empty space beside the desk, before heading to the bathroom to prepare for bed. Lestrade handed him a fresh pair of pajama pants and a t-shirt, before ducking behind the curtain to change into pajamas himself.

"Now, are you sure you want me to stay here?" Lestrade asked, once they had returned to Sherlock's room. "I can always go stay in one of the suites. You can come find me there if you need me, or I can scrounge up a beeper for tonight."

"I'm sure," Sherlock said, tucking himself into bed and curling up on his side as Lestrade climbed onto the cot and lay down. "Are you sure you don't mind?"

Lestrade had been kind to him, kinder than anyone had been in a very long time, and he didn't want to inconvenience him. He wasn't a quiet sleeper on a good day, and it was worse when he was thrown into new situations. He didn't want to wake for bother the other man in the night.

"I'd move the moon and stars for my subs," Lestrade replied around a yawn, before crawling out of bed and flicking out the light. "I hope you sleep well, Sherlock. Please, if you need anything just wake me. Even if it's just for a mate to go to the bathroom."

Sherlock nodded quietly, though he knew he probably wouldn't disturb him if he didn't have to. He wrapped himself up and closed his eyes, trying to focus on the memory of the violin in his hands. If he stayed awake and thinking of that, it meant he couldn't have a nightmare.

In the end, he wasn't that lucky.

  
  
  
  



	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I am not a psychiatrist or therapist of any kind. I'm just making things up.

Greg had meant what he’d said when he told Sherlock to wake him for anything. He'd unintentionally pushed the sub so far earlier that day, asking about his former Doms, that a nightmare seemed inevitable. Hell, some of the higher level rehabbers still woke up screaming. It would have been completely understandable, and he wanted Sherlock to know that he wasn't alone any more. That he was somewhere safe.

But at eight a.m. the alarm on his phone went off, waking him for the first time since he’d laid down. It took Greg a moment to place where he was and why he was there-- who he was there for, but when he had, he turned to see Sherlock sitting up against the headboard of his bed, wrapped once again in his duvet with nothing but his pale face peeking out. Dark smudges stood out so prominently beneath his eyes that they made Greg wince. 

Sherlock hadn't slept well, then. He held back a sigh as he fumbled with his phone to turn off the alarm. It wasn't his fault. Sherlock had opened up an amazing amount in the past day, but it would take a lot more work before he trusted a strange Dom. Greg knew that well enough.

"Sleep alright?" he asked as he sat up and stretched, rolling his shoulders back. Sherlock looked round at him blinking slowly. One of his curls stuck out riotously from beneath the duvet. "Been up long?"

The lump of blanket shrugged and Sherlock cleared his throat. "A few hours. I've been dozing a bit. Did you sleep well?"

Nonspecific answers, deflecting attention, and he still looked rather out of it. Either Sherlock wasn't much of a morning person, he'd had a bad night, or some combination of the two. It was too early to tell. 

"I always sleep like a log," Greg replied with a grin. "Do you want to shower? I need to, was going to use the main bathroom. That door there--" he pointed to the door beside the closet "--is a private bath. Shower stall, toilet, sink, mirror. Bit cramped, but it does the job. It will probably be unlocked in a week or two, but I can let you in this morning if you want a wash."

Sherlock's response, when it finally came, was a distracted shake of the head. If he didn't perk up with breakfast, Greg was going to worry. For now, he merely patted the sub's shoulder. 

"Alright then. I'll grab you a new set of clothes-- yours should be here tomorrow, hopefully-- then give me twenty minutes or so and we can go to breakfast, alright?"

When he returned from the supply closet with another set of clothes, his knock had obviously woken Sherlock from another sort of daze. Fortunately the young man pulled himself up and together whilst Greg was in the shower. He'd changed clothes and made an effort to flatten his curls. Greg offered him another friendly smile and led him downstairs for breakfast.

The chaperone role was as much for his own benefit as it was for Sherlock's, though not many subs cottoned on to that at first. It allowed him to get a preliminary read on how Sherlock slept (poorly) and take notes on how Sherlock did in the caf. The young man had barely eaten anything the previous day. If he didn't start consuming more regular meals, Greg would have to figure out how to approach him about it and possibly enlist other members of his care team.

"Ouu, scotch eggs today!" he said cheerfully, grabbing a tray. For now, he merely went through the hot food line with Sherlock by his side. He filled his own plate, explaining as he went what options were available every day and what was switched out to give a sense of variety. He was immensely relieved when Sherlock got a plate and a small waffle for himself.

"You like sweet stuff?" he asked, wondering if that was the secret. "They have jam and syrup for the waffles somewhere..."

"I'll just have it plain."

Greg immediately dropped the topic, not liking the way that Sherlock's shoulders had hunched up nearly to his ears. There was no reason for him to be self conscious about his food, but pointing that out would not help. So, no talking about anything he ate or his habits unless it became a problem. Hopefully he would normalize a bit as he got more settled.

"I need coffee, you want a cuppa?" That at least had to be a safe topic, as Sherlock had enjoyed a cup of tea several times yesterday. At Sherlock's shy nod of affirmation, he steered them both toward the hot drinks stand.

Once they had settled into a secluded booth to eat, Sherlock seemed to relax a bit. He looked more awake, though the circles under his eyes were still prominent. He tore a small piece from his waffle and asked, "What happens today?"

"Therapy intake at ten, then you'll get a bit of free time until lunch," Greg explained between bites of his breakfast. "I'd like to introduce you to your backup acting Dom-- he's a good bloke, just in case you need someone and I'm not around-- and after lunch you can sit in on a class or two. See what you'd like. It's art, meditation, yoga and music today. You don't have to go to all of them, obviously, that'd be a lot, but you can try out any that suit your fancy."

There was a little hint of displeasure around Sherlock's lips, which he hid quickly behind his mug of tea. "I can go to the music room in my free time, right?"

"Yep. And there's an advanced music class this afternoon you can try, if you want. We employ a full time music teacher, actually. She's also a sub. Her Dom allowed her to gain employment. She's a fantastic pianist-- if it weren't for her dynamic she'd have played professionally. We have four levels of music classes, you'd be in the advanced, if what I heard last night is anything to go by, a beginners guitar because it's popular, choir twice a week, and music appreciation for anyone interested in theory or listening to music, rather than playing."

Sherlock might like the appreciation class, or the choir, Greg thought. Or maybe he'd be interested in trying guitar or a different instrument. He certainly hadn't shown any interest in any of the other options. A glance revealed the sub to be staring at him, mouth a bit agape. 

"How... how many subs live here?"

Greg wiped his mouth with a napkin and set down his fork. He wasn't quite sure where the question had come from but he would give it his full attention. 

"We have four floors of subs, enough room to house a hundred and sixty at maximum capacity. I've only seen that once and, honestly, it was very difficult for everyone involved. We're usually at about half capacity, but that could change at any time so we don't remove programs. Right now we have eighty-nine in program."

Sherlock blinked at him and then looked down at his plate. Greg had another sip of his coffee, waiting. 

"Why are there so many?"

"What do you mean?" Between St Bart's, the women's facility, and the one for underage subs, they served all of London, and Greg didn't think it was a particularly high number.

There was another long pause, as Sherlock dissected his waffle further, refusing to look up at Greg for a moment. Finally, he grabbed his tea again and met Greg's gaze, speaking in a low whisper.

"What's wrong with all of us?" he asked. "If there are that many subs that need training or therapy, isn't that...? I thought being paired up was supposed to fix things? To keep the subs under control and safe? If there are that many subs here isn't it... not working? The system? It means there are a lot of Doms doing it... wrong."

Well, Sherlock was certainly awake and aware now, wasn't he? There was nothing quite like starting the day with hard questions he wasn't supposed to answer on the clock. 

The difficult thing was that Sherlock was right. A lot of Doms these days didn't know what they were doing, weren't ready for or willing to commit to what caring for a submissive entailed. Before the government went to hell relationships had been about choice, individuals could live their lives however they wanted, without resentment and helplessness turning things sour. As far as Greg saw it, subs were worse off in the Western world than they had ever been, treated like second class citizens, and Doms that shouldn't even be trusted with animals were signed off as the caretakers for human beings all because the government had decided that half the population couldn’t be trusted to live alone.

"Sherlock, I'm not supposed to discuss my 'political views' with subs, but I will tell you this," he replied, voice quiet as well. "Our system is broken and our system is wrong."

"Sorry," Sherlock said quickly, staring down into his empty mug of tea. "I just... I didn't really know how much bigger it was than me. It's good what you do here."

"Thank you. I do it because being an activist made some changes, but I wasn't helping those I was fighting for. That's why I'm here. There are others fighting the good fight, much better at it than I ever was."

Thinking back to the first conversation they'd had in his office, Greg wondered how much Sherlock knew about his own rights. Perhaps later, in private, they could talk more about this sort of thing. For now, the sub seemed content to pick at the half of his waffle that remained, expression distracted. Greg left him to it and finished his own meal. 

After breakfast, Greg showed Sherlock back upstairs to his office. "You can bring your tea, if you'd like," he offered. "And you can come down any time and get more. That's why some of the boys like to get a kettle for their room from the catalog, so they don't have to come all the way down." 

The sub was quiet, clutching his ceramic mug like a lifeline as they rode the elevator and it wasn't until Greg had closed the office door behind them that he spoke up again. "Are you going to ask me about my other Doms?"

Greg snagged the printed bracelet from his desk, brushing a thumb over the embossed letters and bold numeral one.  He realized that Sherlock was still hovering near the door, eyeing the bondage chair from the previous day with unease. He gestured to a nice normal seat closer to his desk and offered Sherlock the bracelet. 

"Do you want to talk about them? Normally I would, but I pushed you pretty far yesterday and I don't want to set you off if it can be avoided. Do you feel ready?"

Sherlock shook his head, sliding the red bracelet onto his left wrist. He made no move to take off the paper one, and Greg reached out, projecting his intentions before he made contact, to carefully rip the paper band so that he could pull it off. Sherlock gave him a little nod of thanks. 

"That's just fine, Sherlock," he said warmly. "Thank you for being honest with me. Now, we've got a while before your therapy, so I thought we'd have our daily time together if that's alright. I'd like to talk to you about you-- as a sub and as just yourself. We can do it wherever you'd like. Here or in your room, wherever. You have a preference?"

Sherlock gave another head shake, though he'd softened a bit at the praise. He was damn near starved for it, Greg could tell, which was a real shame. He'd known Sherlock for little over twenty-four hours, and already he could tell the young man was bright, talented, and even fairly obedient. He shouldn't be so starved for approval.

"Do you have questions, or something?" Sherlock prompted, making Greg realize he'd been silent too long, thinking. He gave himself a mental shake and shot the sub a soft smile, moving round the desk.

"I can ask you questions, that's just fine by me." He pulled out a list and a pen to make notes with, settling down in his chair. "This is just to get a sense of your thoughts-- no wrong answers, alright? So, what aspect of being a sub do you like the most?"

For a long moment, Sherlock was quiet, his brows drawn together as he considered the question. He pulled his legs up to sit tailor style in the chair and spoke down at his lap when he finally replied.

"Sometimes my head gets too full," he said, voice very nearly a whisper. "And nothing I do makes it stop except having an order or a focus to pull me back." He paused, and Greg could read clearly on his face that the Doms he'd had hadn't made taking care of that head much of a priority. "And when I was with Felix I got to read his textbooks sometimes. I could help him when he was studying. I liked that." 

"That's good, those are two very good things," Greg said encouragingly, making quick notes as Sherlock spoke. Some submissives came in with nothing positive to say about their dynamic at all. That Sherlock was able to name two things straight off the bat was a good sign. "May I ask, have you ever had a positive submissive experience in the bedroom?"

Sherlock gave a jerky nod, fiddling with his empty cup. "Yes."

"Do you think you can articulate what aspects of that experience you enjoyed as a sub? Obviously orgasms feel good, but was there anything about the submissive aspect that made you feel good?" Greg pressed after it became clear that Sherlock wasn't going to continue on his own. "Or, if you want to stop talking about sex, we can move on. That's fine by me."

"I made him happy," Sherlock said, once again avoiding Greg's gaze. "And I got to stay in bed with him after. That was good." 

Greg was sure to thank him again for his answers, even though they weren't necessarily submissive specific. Anything he could learn about Sherlock's experiences or preferences at this point was good, though. He could extrapolate a few things from there-- that his sexual experiences with his first Domme may not have been remarkably pleasant, at least not enough to be memorable; that aftercare was important to Sherlock, as was feeling helpful and useful. 

"Could you tell me about what aspects of being a sub you dislike?" Greg asked. In front of him, Sherlock froze where he sat, his entire body painfully tense. "It's alright, Sherlock. You're allowed to have opinions on that and I've asked to hear them. No wrong answers, remember?"

There was a long second of silence before the sub gave another of his jerky nods. "Being hurt," he said, voice toneless at first, but growing tighter as he went on, as though the floodgates had been opened. "Being vulnerable and dependent. Only being allowed to do what my Dom wants, be interested in what they are interested in, not able to pursue anything else, treated like I'm not human. Told I can't sleep in the bed, or eat at the table, or wear-- anything. That I don't deserve those things."  He abandoned his mug in the pit between his legs and folded his arms over his chest, clearly trying to self sooth. Greg was out of his chair before he'd made the choice to stand, moving to land in the seat next to Sherlock's.

"Being dependent can be part of submissive's life, if they want it to be, but other than that, none of those things are aspects of being a sub," he said, voice firm, but gentle. He put a reassuring hand on Sherlock's shoulder, giving it a squeeze. "Those were aspects of living in an abusive environment where your Dom was not looking after you. A Dom's job is to find out what their submissive wants and shower them in it, to treat them like the greatest treasure they ever laid eyes on. You should always have a bed, have humility, and have dignity, because you deserve those things."

It was likely that Sherlock wouldn't believe him and that was alright. He'd been told and shown otherwise for most of his life, after all. But it was Greg's job to tell the truth and the truth was that some of those things that Greg mentioned  _could_  be enjoyable aspects of a relationship, if both parties wanted them to be. That obviously hadn't been the case.

Sherlock leaned into Greg's hand, his whole body swaying toward him to the point that he nearly tipped out of his chair. Greg scooted his own chair closer to support him. "I... I don't have another answer, then," he admitted softly.

"That's okay. You don't have to have one. Our society let these things happen to you just because of your dynamic. Right now, Sherlock, you can feel whatever you want. Even confusion." He rubbed along the young man's shoulder blades, encouraging him to relax a bit more. " Can you tell me, can you imagine an ideal situation where you would be happy with a Dom?"

Some of the boys came in with elaborate fantasies of what life with a good Dom would be like. Sherlock hadn't had much experience with good Doms, it seemed. He hadn't said anything about his childhood, which meant he might have no idea what a positive Dom/sub relationship looked like, for lack of role models. His poor experiences might have put him off fantasizing about a perfect relationship, even if he could conceive of one. 

"That's fine," Greg continued, moving his hand up to pet Sherlock's curls when the sub shook his head. "When you were in a bad situation did you ever use escapism to get some peace? If you did, where did you escape to?"

Sherlock nearly melted into his chair as Greg's fingers wove into the curls at his nape. "My mind palace."

"Your what?"

The sub's eyes had slipped closed, but there was a faint smile on his lips as he spoke. "It's a memory technique.  You make a building in your head and whenever you want to remember something you put it in a room and plot a path for how to get there. I filled mine with puzzles and mysteries-- anything I could find in the papers. I did maths in there, and balanced equations, made up experiments. That's where I went to think."

"That's amazing, Sherlock. I've never heard of anything like it. Did you come up with it yourself?" Greg asked, the praise falling easily from his lips. They were always generous with approval for new entrants to the program, but this was different. Sherlock was honestly brilliant. 

"I heard about it when I was still in school," Sherlock admitted, cheeks flushing lightly as he glanced at Greg, almost as though he didn't believe what he was hearing. "It's called a 'mind map' I believe, but I thought if I was making it for myself I could... indulge."

"That's just... that's brilliant, that is. Really, it is." He gave Sherlock's nape a squeeze, unable to hold back a grin. "Sherlock, would you be willing to sit for an IQ test?" If he was and the results were as high as Greg suspected they might be, they might be able to get him into some online uni courses. He had a feeling Sherlock would enjoy that. Best not mention it in case it didn't work out, but still! Cases like this rarely came along.

"Okay," Sherlock agreed with a shrug. "Will that help me find a better Dom?"

"Honestly, it might," Greg replied, encouragingly. "It could open up some options for you, make sure we get you what you need. Some Doms want subs that are smart, either to match their own intellect or in order to pass along those genes to their offspring. Being able to put that into the system will help us get a better match." 

"Okay," Sherlock said again, though there was a small smile on his lips, as though he was caught up in Greg's enthusiasm, just a bit. "If you think it's important, okay." 

"That’s great, Sherlock,” Greg replied, eyes catching on the sub’s smile. “I really appreciate it. I do think it will help. Now, we’re just coming up on time for you to have your first therapy session. Do you have any questions for me about anything?”

What brightening there had been Sherlock’s expression and posture faded as Greg spoke, leaving the young man looking uneasy again. He chewed at his lip. “Will you be there?” 

“I’m not supposed to be, not for therapy,” Greg said, as gently as he could. It was standard protocol, really. While giving subs an acting Dom to connect with at the centre gave them stability, they also needed to interact with other safe Doms, ones they could go to if—heaven forbid—someone was treating them inappropriately. That being said, Sherlock’s anxiety over meeting a new, unfamiliar Dominant wasn’t unheard of and if the sub leaned toward him any more he was going to fall. Greg stood up and closed the short distance between them, letting Sherlock settle against him properly.

“If you really need me there I can sit in today, just for introductions, but your therapist, Dr John Watson, he’s a very kind man. Incredibly understanding and fiercely protective of all the subs under his care. He’ll make you work in his sessions, he’s tough like that, but he’s fair. Only pushes as far as he thinks you can manage.”

“Will you meet me afterward, then? I’ll try on my own. Can I ask him to call you if I need you?” Sherlock tipped his head so that it rested against Greg’s belly, his eyes closing again. Greg petted his hair gently, amazed that the sub was so open and affectionate with him.

“Yep. I meant to get you a beeper earlier, should have one in my desk you can use. Just press the button and I’ll be there, quick as I can.” He didn’t step away to retrieve it, not just yet. “I’ll grab it before we head over. Okay? We’ve still got a few minutes. Just relax. It’s going to be fine.”

~

Sherlock was feeling unusually calm, considering he’d spent more than half the night awake and reeling from a particularly violent nightmare. He wondered briefly if there was something in the food here, but he hadn’t partaken in much more than tea, and the tea he had made himself, so that was unlikely to be it.

More likely it was the near constant verbal and physical reassurances he’d been receiving all morning. He didn’t know what he’d done to deserve them, but he wanted very badly to believe that he did.

Lestrade had said he was great, he was brilliant, he was amazing, and he had touched him and held him so gently. He hadn’t asked anything awful of him, hadn’t even really asked anything too difficult. So Sherlock decided to keep trying to behave and maybe they wouldn’t take all of this away and give up on him.

Lestrade led him down the hall, past a small chemist’s counter and into the therapy wing, all the while with a hand at the small of his back. “If you’d like I could meet you after therapy with a cuppa. Would that help? Give you something else good to think about?”

Somehow in the face of all of these large acts of kindness, it was this offer that brought a lump to his throat. Lestrade knew he was nervous. Knew he liked tea. Wanted to reassure him. It was almost incomprehensible. He nodded, unable to speak.

“I’ll do that then,” Lestrade said, as they stepped through the waiting room, full of cozy chairs. “Anything to help.” He peered through the small window of one of the doors, then knocked at it.

The man that answered was fairly unassuming, though Sherlock knew better than to write off a threat based on a man’s height and smile. He wore a cream coloured woolen jumper, his centre ID hanging on a plain black lanyard against his chest. His hands were folded behind his back and beyond him, Sherlock could see the office, windows with the curtains drawn, warm lighting, one exit only.

“-lock?” Lestrade was watching him, concerned. The doctor was as well, though he offered Sherlock a smile meant to reassure.

“I know it’s a scary prospect, but I see you’ve got a beeper with you. If you need Greg at any time, I can leave the room and you can buzz him.” Sherlock’s grip tightened on the beeper Lestrade had given him, looking to the Dominant again.

“I’ll be waiting when the hour’s up,” Lestrade said. “Promise.”

Sherlock nodded tightly and stepped inside, hyper aware of Doctor Watson at his heels, closing the door behind them. No one else could see them now. He tensed, expecting the man’s hands on him, and was surprised when instead he moved around to sit behind his desk.

“You can sit wherever you’d like.” There were two straight backed chairs, an armchair, and a sofa long enough to lay down on. Beneath the window was a wicker trunk with a padded cushion atop it. Sherlock glanced around but didn’t move.

“You were in the war,” he said cautiously. He watched the doctor’s eyes grow wide, before doing a cursory scan of his desk and the walls around it.

“Afghanistan. Field medic before I retrained in psychiatry and psychology. I don’t have any photos up, how did you…?”

He wasn’t angry. Interesting.

“You stand at parade rest when you’re not thinking about it, and the photo on your ID—military haircut, grown out two, maybe three weeks. Tan, but not past the wrists.” The words came out before he could stifle them and once they had he stepped automatically backward. Out of range, just in case.

“Don’t think I’ll ever lose this tan,” the doctor replied with a grin. “Sun like that, burns you forever. You figured all that out just looking at me? That was brilliant!”

Sherlock stared at him for a long moment, uncertain how to respond. The compliment seemed genuine. That hadn’t happened before. He curled on the nearest end of the sofa, pulling his knees up to his chest.

“Not what people usually say, I’m guessing?” Sherlock curled tighter, putting his chin on his knees. “D’you want a blanket, Sherlock? I have a few. Gets a bit chilly in here, I admit.”

“Please,” Sherlock managed to say, his gaze locked on the Dominant as he got up to retrieve a quilted blanket from the wicker trunk. He passed it to Sherlock and returned to his desk. Immediately Sherlock threw it around himself like a cape. It wasn’t cold in the slightest, but he’d take the excuse to hide, even if it seemed the doctor knew it was an excuse.

“Well, to start I’m Dr. John Watson, as Greg said. You can call me John. I’ve been a therapist and psychiatrist for a while now, after I got out of the army. I do talk therapy and cognitive behavioral therapy. We’ll see which fit is best for you. So, Sherlock, what brought you to the centre?”

“My Master put me in handcuffs and handed me over to a pair of thugs with a van,” Sherlock replied curtly. Lestrade had said earlier that he could feel whatever he wanted. Right now, now that he wasn’t feeling anxious that John was going to attack him, he was annoyed more than anything.

“Sub transport agency, huh? Those blokes are never nice. That mustn’t have been a pleasant experience,” John replied, sympathetic instead of annoyed in turn at the way Sherlock had responded. “So there was no police involvement?”

That gave Sherlock pause. His Master had been distant, meeting with people. Lawyers. “If there was, he didn’t tell me.”

“Would you like me to ask Greg to look into it? It can be hard not having any answers. That closure can be really beneficial to the healing process.”

It was bizarre, Sherlock thought, the way that the Doms here spoke to him. They asked his opinion about things and listened. They didn’t shout about proper address, or whether he was looking at them. They… meant what Lestrade had told him earlier, it seemed like. That this was about him, which meant maybe his previous experiences were aberrations and he hadn’t deserved them, and that the Dominants here at the center really did just want to help him understand what had happened and move forward from there.

He gave a slow nod. “I don’t know why it happened,” he admitted. “But it brought me here and that’s… good.”

“We’re glad you’re safe with us,” John agreed, making a quick note. “My chart said that you had to visit the doctor yesterday, get some burns treated and lanced. How did you get those?”

 The lump in Sherlock’s throat was back. He looked away from John, fidgeting with the edge of the quilt instead. It shouldn’t be hard to talk about this. He’d told Lestrade yesterday. “He burned me. With cigarettes.”

“Your old Dom, you mean? Did he do that regularly?” John’s voice was steady and calm. Sherlock nodded, flattening his hand over his thigh, pressing lightly on the gauze that covered the worst of the wounds. “Do you have scars from him?”

“And from some of the others,” Sherlock murmured, feeling sick as he admitted it. This wasn’t what he’d expected from this conversation.

“What kind of scars did they leave?”

“Do you want to see them?” Sherlock snapped, breaking slightly under the steady pressure of the doctor’s questions. “They’re scars. They—they cut me, or whipped me, or burned me. They’re just scars. Ugly.”

“If you want to show them to me, that’s fine. I just wanted to know the kind of torture that was inflicted on you. You see through my tricks, though. I’ll address you in a more visible manner,” John replied, seemingly unfazed. Sherlock blinked at him and frowned, biting his tongue for a moment.

“It wasn’t torture. Some of it was punishment.”

John set down his notepad and leaned forward, catching Sherlock’s eye and speaking sternly.

“Punishment that leaves marks really shouldn’t be considered punishment.” It was another of those ‘rules’ then. Subs should have humility and dignity. Things his previous Doms had never believed in. John went on, “Of course, accidents do happen. Were those ‘punishments’ accidents? Did they take a belting too far? Did you even deserve to be punished?”

“Are you asking me if, in my entire life, I’ve ever deserved to be punished, or are you asking about the cigarettes?” Sherlock asked, in a tone that would have gotten him backhanded by anyone else. He wasn’t afraid of John, though. Somehow.

“Well, we can start with the cigarettes. You said they were a punishment. Did you deserve to be burned for what you did?”

Sherlock shifted slightly, balling one fist in the quilt. “I didn’t say the burns were a punishment. I said some of the other scars were. I… the cigarettes were because he wanted to hurt me.”

“Why would he want to do that?” John asked quietly. “Why would he burn you if it wasn’t for punishment?”

For a moment Sherlock resisted, feeling caught in the memory. He pressed down hard over the gauze pad, feeling the edges of it, trying to remind himself that he wasn’t there any longer.

“Because he wanted to,” he managed eventually. “Because he could and he thought it was funny. He did it and he laughed, and there was nothing I could do about it!”

“How did that make you feel?” John’s tone gentled considerably after that admission of helplessness, and he sat back again in his chair. Sherlock scrubbed at his eyes with the blanket, refusing to meet his gaze. “Bit not good, I can only imagine.”

“Not good,” Sherlock confirmed roughly, pulling the blanket higher. “It scared me. And it hurt, obviously.”

“Was the pain worse, or the fear? What were you scared of, exactly?”

“He could do it at any time. I never knew when and he could—I didn’t know if it would ever stop. He could just hurt me and I couldn’t ever get away.” He was shaking again, thinking about it, about being pinned by the man, or trussed up in bed and scrambling away as best he could.

“But you did, didn’t you. Got away. Proved that cunt wrong,” John said, with a tiny smile. “I can’t imagine how awful that would have been. How brave you were to even make it through the day. Your last Dominant was a sadist. By what you say, he took great pleasure in causing you pain. Not if you consented, I imagine, but pain that truly hurt, disfigured, and was forced upon you. How did you survive that?”

He had, hadn’t he? Maybe not by dint of anything he’d done, but he wasn’t there any more. Wasn’t under the man’s thumb. Sherlock felt a bit of the tightness in his chest loosen. He dipped his head in acknowledgment, soaking up John’s praise as he explained the concept of his mind palace.

“If I struggled or shouted, he just burnt me more, so I tried to… I went somewhere else in my head. He still did it, but that—I was able to escape, some.”

“Sherlock, that’s incredible,” John said, smiling widely at him. “Do you think that in your mind palace you would be able to make a place to sort and ‘lock up’ the bad memories? Put them somewhere you could access them, so that they wouldn’t hurt you as much when they came up?”

There it was again, someone telling him he was good. Incredible, even. Warmth blossomed in Sherlock’s chest. “I don’t know. I’ve never tried something like that,” he replied honestly.

“Well, for now just think on it. Maybe it could help you, or maybe you want to keep your mind palace clear of all that. Your choice.” He made another few notes, glancing up when a knock at the door sounded. “Blimey, that should be Greg.”

It was, and when the other Dom entered he was carrying a cup of tea. Just as he’d promised.

Sherlock scrubbed his face on the quilt one more time before abandoning it and crossing the room to the other man’s side. John called him Greg, rather than Lestrade, and maybe Sherlock could do that too. It felt safe to be there, to do that. Greg wrapped an arm around his waist, passing him the tea.

“Alright?”

Sherlock gave a small nod, but put off answering aloud, raising the mug to his lips. He felt wrung out. Greg hadn’t been kidding when he’d said John would push him.

“Thank you for seeing me today, Sherlock,” John offered, giving him another smile. “I know how hard being in this room can be when you’re on the couch. Thanks for trusting me. I hope we can continue to work together.”

Sherlock nodded again, still half hiding behind his mug. “Tomorrow, then, I suppose?” He glanced at Greg for confirmation that his therapy would be daily.

“Tomorrow we can take it as fast or slow as you want,” John assured him, before returning to his desk.

Sherlock wasn’t quite listening as Greg led him out of John’s office. He was cognizant enough to shake his head no, he wasn’t hungry, but didn’t really register where they were going until Greg had gently ushered him into a rolling chair in front of a computer. They were in a computer lab. He glanced at the Dominant, uncertainly. Greg smiled at him, taking a seat at the next computer over, but rolling his chair beside Sherlock’s and grabbing the mouse for the one he was seated in front of.

“I didn’t mention it yesterday because I wasn’t sure if you’d have any interest, but we have a partnership with the City of London libraries,” he said, turning on the computer and typing ‘SHolmes’ to log on. He clicked the link on the desktop. “You can get ebooks to read here at the computer lab, or have regular books delivered. They come every day, it’s a pretty good system. I thought you might be interested?”

For some horrible reason, Sherlock could feel his eyes burning with tears. His throat was too tight to talk and he was crying, crying for no reason. He’d just been presented free access to books. Books! A creature comfort he’d longed to have for ages and rarely gotten access to, and Greg was looking at him, clearly expecting him to be delighted but instead he was crying.

His master’s laugh rang in the back of his head.

“Sherlock, are you okay? Do you need to go have some quiet time?” Greg’s voice was soft, his touch to Sherlock’s arm gentle. Sherlock clutched his tea even tighter.

“No, I’m…” He shook his head. He wanted books. He wanted normalcy. “Sorry. I’m just being silly.”

“You aren’t being silly.” Greg stood, and for one panicked moment, Sherlock thought he was going to leave him, but it was just to reach a box of tissues at the end of the table. He offered it to Sherlock, who took a few to wipe his face. “You’re having a completely natural reaction to starting the program. It’s difficult, and that’s why I’m here to support you.”

“Is it always going to be that hard?” Sherlock asked, feeling embarrassed. It had just been an hour of talking. He’d suffered much worse at the hands of crueler Doms.

“No, not always,” Greg promised. “But it is at first. It’s going to be very fatiguing for the first few weeks. Why don’t you sit back, drink your tea, and tell me what subjects you’re interested in, and I’ll order you some books. Unless you know what you want?”

“I have no idea,” Sherlock admitted, breath catching in a small laugh at the man’s enthusiastic grin. He curled up in the seat as best he could and had another sip of tea as he thought. “Science. Biology and chemistry, especially. Plants and animals and—I want to read about people. Mysteries, maybe? Crime?” He shrugged, not really sure what he was looking for. To have the entire library system at his fingers was too much; he had no idea where to even start. “Any recommendations?”

“A few,” Greg mused, nudging Sherlock to the side so that he could sit at the keyboard. Sherlock sipped his tea and sat quietly as the man picked through the library catalog. He was feeling much calmer a while later when the Dom turned back to him. “I got you three novels and four textbooks. How does that sound for now?”

“Good,” Sherlock replied honestly. “Thank you.”  As he had when Greg had offered to bring him tea, he felt incredibly touched by this intimate, thoughtful gesture.

“You’re welcome. Now, lunch is in an hour. We can go lounge about on the balcony or go up to your room and you can have a bit of a lie down. You’re tired, I can see it and you can feel it. Which would you rather?”

Sherlock could feel it; there was no sense in arguing. If Greg had taken much longer at the computer he might have dozed off.

“My room.” It was a novelty to have a room of his own, and going there meant fewer potential interactions with the other Dominants that worked in the building, or submissives who lived there.

“If we’re lucky some of your things might have come in,” Greg said, nudging Sherlock up and toward the elevator again.

They were lucky, or at least, Sherlock was lucky. A small gasp of pleasure escaped him when he noticed the small stack of fabric sitting on his desk. The new shoes were tucked beneath the end of the bed and sitting atop his pillow was a small stuffed otter. He moved to pick it up, feeling at once a little foolish, but indescribably pleased by the plush toy. It was very soft and round enough to tuck into the crook of his arm.

“Oh that’s lovely!” Greg had followed him into the room with a smile. “I can put away your clothes for you, if you’d like. Unless you want to change first. I can step into the hall for a bit.” He reached out to draw a finger down the otter’s blunt snout. “Got a name?”

“Not yet… I’ve only had him for all of ten seconds.” Sherlock gave the otter another gentle squeeze. “That’s alright. I can put the things away.”

“D’you want me to stay or go? It’s up to you, you have your beeper now.” Greg asked, sitting down next to him on the edge of the bed. “You did such a good job this morning, Sherlock. Ate breakfast, had your first therapy appointment. That’s amazing. Really amazing.”

Sherlock took a deep breath, reveling in the praise. It didn’t sound like much, but at the same time it sounded like the Dom meant it. That was enough. “I’ll just be sleeping. If you have other work or something… whichever you like.”

“How about I go check on my other subs, that way if you need me I’m literally a shout away?” Greg offered, like a compromise. “You and otter have a rest. I’ll come back when I’ve finished my rounds.”

“Okay.” Sherlock crawled beneath his duvet, tucking otter beneath his arm. “Will you wake me for lunch?” His words were interrupted by a yawn that he was unable to stifle. Greg stroked his curls.

“I will. Maybe a late lunch, though, if you’re peaceful.” Greg shut off the light and closed the door behind him when he went, leaving Sherlock alone.

He wasn’t entirely alone, though, and he wasn’t afraid. He was taken care of. With that thought in mind, he drifted off to sleep, sleeping quietly for the first time in ages.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A Greg POV only chapter, of some length. Thanks for reading!

Greg waited with his dinner at the exit to the tables, chatting with his subs and others as they passed. Sherlock was still poking around in the food line. It was taking a while for him to pick, but considering he seemed to be actually looking at real food rather than just carbs and tea, Greg wasn’t keen on rushing him. He’d had a pretty trying morning and had been rather subdued, even after his nap. Pressing too hard and fast now would only shut him down.

Eventually Sherlock joined him, a single serving pot pie on his plate and nothing else. Greg nodded toward the drinks stand, not sure if the sub had forgotten or if he’d just finally hit his limit. “You want a tea?” 

He'd had a cuppa with every other meal, and a few times in between. Maybe a nice kettle and mug would be a good present for Sherlock’s upcoming birthday celebration. Either that would do, or a trip to a bookstore once he’d made it to level two and could go off premises. Then again, subs sometimes feared presents like that could be withdrawn, if they didn’t get them right away. Sherlock might appreciate something a bit more immediate.

“No. I’m fine,” Sherlock said curtly, nodding to indicate that Greg should lead the way to their usual table. Greg did so, letting an easy silence fall between them as they got settled. He dug into his stir fry, keeping one eye on Sherlock.

Across from him, the sub dissected his pot pie with his fork. He levered the golden brown top off of the tin and set it to the side of his plate, then began to scoop out all of the vegetables. Only once all that remained in the pie were small chunks of beef did he begin to spear those and eat them, one tiny piece at a time.

Greg observed without comment as Sherlock finished eating the beef, nibbled a bit at the crust, and then pushed away his tray. He finished his own meal, giving the issue some thought. It looked like Sherlock was weaning himself back onto a normal diet. He was obviously making an effort. He glanced up at the sub as he finished off his water, trying to read the young man’s expression. He seemed almost nervous.

“Sherlock, before you came here—with your last Dom, I mean—was your diet very lacking? I’m asking because you don’t seem to have much of an appetite, but I can tell you’re trying,” Greg said, reaching out to offer Sherlock his hand. The sub took it immediately. “If you were being starved or undernourished I understand that your stomach can’t handle a whole lot of food at once, so I was just thinking we might want to get you to the doctor for vitamin injections, just to help you feel stronger while you readjust.”

“I haven’t ever eaten much,” Sherlock said, looking at their entwined hands instead of at Greg’s face as he spoke. “My master, he—he fed me whatever he hadn’t eaten when he ate, and it was fine. It was enough. I… I went to a doctor once, though, before being traded, and they said I don’t get enough iron. That’s in red meat and green vegetables, but I don’t have a taste for vegetables and…”

He trailed off, looking around the room almost desperately. “Is it always like this? All these options, all the time?”

Greg nodded, carefully keeping his reactions from his expression. Feeding a sub from one’s own plate could be a sensuous, intimate experience, but it wasn’t meant to be their only damn source of nutrition. He gave Sherlock’s hand a reassuring squeeze.

“As your acting Dom, I’m going to make a decision for you, alright? You get used to eating at your own pace, whatever that is. I’ll monitor it, and if you start to lose weight, you can drink supplement shakes. Until you’re a bit more stable with food, though, I’m going to take you for vitamin injections and iron supplements. Do you understand why I’ve decided this?”

There was a flicker of a frown on Sherlock’s face, before a small, shy smile emerged. “You… want me to be healthy?”

“Yeah,” Greg agreed, heart breaking a little at that. “I do, Sherlock. I want you to be healthy, happy, and to see all the value I see in you. I know needles aren’t fun, but it’s the best way to get the vitamins in you, and it’s only for the short term. If you really hate it we can switch to pills, but you have to take those with food in your stomach, so I think shots are the best. What do you think?”

He would stand his ground on this one even if Sherlock protested. He didn't think Sherlock would, after the way he had laid out all of his reasoning for the sub to see, but if he did, he needed to know that Greg was looking out for his best interests. To his relief, Sherlock nodded.

“Will the doctor I saw yesterday give them to me? How will they fit into the schedule?” He squeezed at Greg’s hand again, chewing at his lip. “And… can we go to the music room before bed again?”

“Yeah. Either Dr. Stamford or the nurse on staff. We’ll start tomorrow, probably just once a week, so I’d say Saturday mornings, pop down before breakfast and that’s that?” Saturdays were rather slow usually, so the nurse would have plenty of time for him. “And yes, we can go visit the music room. Itching to get your hands back on the violin?”

It was only half past six by the time they made their way to the music room, early enough that the door was still unlocked for the night, but close enough to the dinner hour that it was still deserted. That was probably for the best, Greg thought, as he grabbed a chair near the door, waving Sherlock on to fetch a violin. He didn’t imagine the sub was ready to meet any of the other subs yet, but it wouldn’t have been fair to ask any of the others to leave. Anyone who came by now would probably have enough tact to move along. They’d all been new at one point or another.

While Sherlock pulled an instrument free and began to warm up, Greg got some work done on his phone, responding to emails, checking his calendar and scheduling check ins for his other subs while Sherlock was scheduled to be busy. Almost all of them had already experienced someone new coming onto program that needed his attention, but he liked to reassure them that he was still there for them and cared for them as well.

He looked up when the music faltered to see Sherlock shuffling through the bookshelves and folders stacked in the corner. He crossed to stand beside the sub. “What are you looking for? I might be able to help.”

“A violin part,” Sherlock admitted, flipping through the pages in a binder. “Any song, really, I don’t care. I just want to see if I can still sight read…”

Greg nodded and began to shuffle through the music as well, playfully bumping hips with Sherlock when he reached over top of Greg to snatch up a piece that had a violin part. “Cheeky,” he teased, in a goofy voice, hoping that Sherlock would take the words as intended.

The sub froze for a moment—clearly uncertain, but not cowering or leaping away—before giving Greg an awkward shrug and looking down at the sheet of music he’d grabbed. Greg took note of his reaction. Sherlock wasn’t ready for that type of playful behavior, but he wasn’t afraid or angry.

“Will you play it for me?” he asked, nodding to the music that Sherlock held. “Is it tricky? I can’t read music.”

“I won’t be very good,” Sherlock replied, looking down at the page with a frown. He set it on a stand and took up the violin again. “It doesn’t look too difficult, but I’m so out of practice…”

Greg retook his seat, listening intently as Sherlock played. It was beautiful, both the sound and the sight of him. Sherlock looked most at peace when he played, body swaying slightly in time with the music. His eyes were sharp, focused on the page in front of him, but the rest of his expression was relaxed, filled with a serenity that left him almost as soon as he lowered his bow. Greg was quick to applaud.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. You’re fantastic!” he told him cheerfully. “Or I’m just dreadfully uncultured, but I really enjoyed your playing.”

A light blush crept up Sherlock’s neck, hidden quickly as he ducked his head. He turned away, looking at the music again and beginning to play some parts over. Greg sat back and listened, relaxing into it. He could listen to it all day, he thought. No matter what Sherlock said about himself he really was quite good and the sound was rather calming.

Before long, though, Greg’s phone beeped an alarm, notifying him that it was fast approaching ten o’clock.

“Time to turn in,” he said gently, interrupting Sherlock before he could start on another phrase. “It’s almost light’s out.”

Sherlock’s shoulders slumped, but he didn’t protest, carefully packing the violin away.

“It means a lot to you, doesn’t it?” Greg felt bad that he couldn’t let Sherlock bring the instrument back to his room, but couldn’t break the rules for the sub. It wasn’t just that there were others who would want to use it, or that he would disturb the others on his floor, but that he knew Sherlock wouldn’t sleep a wink if he had it.

“It’s the only thing that’s always been mine,” Sherlock explained, putting the case back in the cubby and heading toward the door. “Nobody could take music away from me. I couldn’t play, but I could compose in my mind palace. It’s something no one’s tainted with bad memories.”

“You can come back tomorrow to play,” Greg promised. “And maybe, if you’re sleeping better, I can arrange it so you’re allowed to stay up later sometimes to play. No promises, but I can try. If something means that much to you it would be cruel to separate you from it… but you do need sleep.”

Sherlock stepped close to him, letting him lead the way back to the elevator and up to the sixth floor, hiding a yawn against his shoulder. It seemed his tiredness was catching up to him, once his attention had been pulled away from the violin.

“Now, would you like me to spend the night again, or would you like to sleep alone?” Greg asked, as they stepped into Sherlock’s room together. The sub’s new clothes were still on the desk, his pajamas on top. They’d be the first clothes here at the center that Sherlock wore that were truly his. “I can always sleep down in one of the overnight rooms and be up in a moment for you if you want to try but are nervous. You have your beeper still, right?”

Sherlock pulled the beeper from where it was clipped to his bracelet and nodded, sinking onto the bed for a moment. He looked over at the cot, a frown on his face. “If you sleep downstairs, will you show me where? So I know where you are?”

Greg glanced at the cot too, guessing the sub’s train of thought. The cots, while convenient, weren’t half as comfortable as a proper bed.

“I don’t want you making this decision for my convenience if you aren’t ready to sleep alone, Sherlock,” he said sternly. “It’s lovely of you to be so kind to me, to think of me before yourself. You’re a very caring person. Can you let me care for you too? Do you need someone to sleep with you?”

Sherlock picked up his stuffed otter, holding it in the crook of his arm before looking up at Greg. “I did okay last night. I think I’ll be okay as long as I know how to get to you if I need to.” He paused and glanced down at the stuffy’s cherubic face. “And I won’t be alone.”

Greg chuckled. “Alright, come on. They’re secret on the second floor.”

He showed Sherlock back downstairs and through a door marked “Staff Only” which was unlocked. There were a number of unused bedroom suites down in that hall, and he chose the first one. “You sure you’re okay with this?”

“I can use the beeper or come find you if something happens, right?” Sherlock asked, taking a deep breath. “That’s okay?”

Sherlock seemed to want very badly to do this, which Greg could understand. He wanted some independence, some sense of confidence.

“Of course. You’re being very brave. I’m proud of you.” He reached out and squeezed Sherlock’s hand gently. “We’ll leave the cot in your room for tonight, if that’s okay with you. I’d rather just zombie upstairs and not have to do any heavy lifting if you need me. Okay? Come on. Let’s get ready for bed and I’ll say goodnight.”

He ushered Sherlock back upstairs and waited outside for the sub to change into his pajamas. At Sherlock’s soft call, he re-entered the room and tucked the young man into his bed, pleased to see he was still holding his otter close. He encouraged all of his rehabbers to pick a stuffy from the catalog just for this reason.

“I’ll see you in the morning?” Sherlock asked softly, otter tucked just beneath his chin.

“Yep,” Greg confirmed. “I’ll come get you. If you wake up and want to go to breakfast but I’m not here yet, just beep me.” He ran a gentle hand through Sherlock’s curls and then gave the otter a tap. “Have a good sleep, Sherlock. After your day, you deserve it. You did so well.”

Greg retreated from Sherlock’s room, turning off the lights as he went.

When he finally settled into bed, sleep wasn’t long in coming. Acting Dom wasn’t a physically taxing job on most days, but the mental and emotional wear of it was enough to tire him out as though it was. He slept like a log, phone plugged in to charge near his head so that he’d hear the text come in if Sherlock buzzed him, or his alarm go off in the morning.

It wasn’t his phone that woke him, though, in the pitch black of the room an indiscernible amount of time later. It was a soft noise from the direction of the door, and the sight of light from the hall filtering in and then disappearing as the door thudded closed again. Immediately he rolled over to face the door, scanning the darkness.

Sherlock stood there, face pale faced and trembling. He was wearing his pajamas, his otter clutched tightly beneath one arm, and his eyes were red, cheeks puffy. His chest heaved beneath his sleep shirt in silent, frantic breaths.

“Sherlock? C’mere, love,” Greg urged, the pet name slipping past his usual iron clad control at the sight of the terrified young man. He sat up and pulled the duvet back, relieved when Sherlock immediately closed the distance between them. He climbed onto the bed and cuddled up against Greg’s chest, hiding his face. “Sh, it’s okay. What’s wrong? What happened?”

Night terror, if he had to guess. Sherlock shook his head, his shoulders shuddering as he continued to gasp for breath. Greg wrapped a tight arm around him and rubbed his back to soothe him.

“It’s okay,” he murmured, tucking the duvet around them both and rocking them back and forth a bit. “It’s alright, don’t try to talk, just take deep breaths in and out with me.” He started to breath slowly, trying to get the panicked sub to copy him. “You’re safe, you’re completely safe with me. I’m here for you, Sherlock. I’m here for you, to keep you safe.”

It took a few minutes of alternating breathing and murmuring reassurances before Sherlock began to calm down. The trembling continued, but he was no longer at risk of hyperventilating, it seemed.

“Do you want to tell me about it?” Greg asked. He was so relieved, so honored that Sherlock had trusted him enough to come find him in his panicked state, but he didn’t know yet how best to deal with these nightmares. There was no way to know without asking first. “You don’t have to, you can just go straight back to sleep if you want, or stay awake with me.”

Sherlock pressed his forehead a little harder against Greg’s collarbone, his hands shifting to pull the duvet higher as he seemed to consider. “He was here. In my room and he—it was like before, but worse.” He touched his thigh, where the worst of the burns lay beneath the gauze. “He was burning me all over and he was laughing about it. I couldn’t—I couldn’t—I… it was worse.”

“Oh Sherlock, I’m sorry,” Greg said honestly, giving the sub another soft squeeze. “That sounds terrifying, utterly terrifying. I know it’s hard to believe, but you’re safe. He’s not here, he cannot get in here. No one without a security pass can. You’re safe. Can you say that with me? I am safe.”

“I’m safe.” It was little more than a whisper, but Greg counted that a success. He pushed his fingers into Sherlock’s curls, rubbing at the nape of his neck the way he knew Sherlock had enjoyed the previous day.

“That’s good, that’s so good. No one here will hurt you. I know that’s impossible to believe right now, but it’s true.” He smiled at Sherlock’s small murmur of pleasure, the way he seemed to melt even more into his embrace. “Would you like to stay here with me? Or go back up to your room?”

“I can’t go back there, not tonight. Can I stay?”

“Of course you can, anything for you, Sherlock,” Greg assured him, pulling away a bit. “Do you want the bed to yourself?” He’d happily kip on the floor for the night, or grab a cot if that made Sherlock more comfortable.

“No!” It appeared that wouldn’t be necessary, though, the way that Sherlock immediately latched on to him again. “Just—can I stay like this, with you? Please? If I can feel you’re here, I might not—I might not dream about him again. Please?” Even though he’d grabbed for Greg, Sherlock was retreating again, as though he was uncertain. Greg was quick to tug him close again, giving him a reassuring squeeze.

“It’s fine, Sherlock. You’re not asking too much. It’s very nice of you to share this big bed with me,” he told him gently, shifting around to lay down and pull Sherlock with him. He got the blanket settled over them both and made sure Sherlock had his otter. “Thank you for letting me in, really. It means a lot.”

“Please don’t go,” Sherlock mumbled, burying his face against Greg’s chest.

“Never,” Greg promised, rubbing his back gently. He pressed a soft kiss to the top of Sherlock’s curls. “I’ll hold on as long as you want me to. Goodnight, love. Sleep well.”

 

Greg woke to a long, lithe body wrapped around his own, which was a rather enticing prospect to his sleepy hind-brain. The sub's slim hips were slotted just a bit low, against his thighs, but if he'd gone to bed with him, he probably wouldn't mind--

No, wait-- Greg opened his eyes, forcing his body to keep still and was glad he'd done so when he caught sight of Sherlock's curls just inches from his nose. This made more sense. It wasn't as though he had the time or inclination to date outside of work. He was pretty well known as a workaholic, pouring all of his mental and emotional energy into the boys at Bart's that needed him. Sherlock had needed him last night and probably the last thing he needed right now was the only Dom he trusted on the planet to wake him up by poking him with an ill timed erection.

It didn't help that he felt fond of Sherlock, a fondness that probably went further than was appropriate for his job. The sub was brilliant, beautiful, and already showing signs of astonishing resilience. Greg was good at his job, had been doing it for years and years, but had never felt this sort of connection with a submissive before. He cared for all of his boys, of course, and loved helping them, but he'd always managed to keep up a barrier between the professional and personal.

Carefully he shifted his lower body away from Sherlock's octopus grip. If he wanted to keep helping Sherlock-- and at this point, he wasn't sure Sherlock would accept the help of anyone else-- he would have to maintain a professional emotional distance. It would be worth it, to see the young man recover from what had been done to him.

With a quiet sigh, Greg lay back and thought of unpleasant things, hoping at least the physical aspect of his problem would go away before the alarm went off and woke Sherlock, who was sleeping peacefully. It took a monumental amount of self-control, but luckily he’d woken early enough to think himself back into a state of decency before his phone began to chime and Sherlock started to stir in his arms.

Getting Sherlock up and ready for the day once it was time went smoothly, though he had to wave off the young man's multiple apologies for bothering him in the night. 

"It wasn't a bother," he repeated, when they reconvened after dressing. "I'm glad you felt you could trust me. Now, let's get to the doctor so we can go have breakfast." 

It was rather remarkable, he thought as Sherlock padded alongside him, how well the sub was adjusting. The notes in his file had him marked out as an utter nightmare, but Sherlock was doing very well. He'd gone up to his room to get dressed and come back down on his own, while Greg showered, for example. He'd had subs that had suffered less refuse to come out of their rooms for the first two weeks, but Sherlock was acclimating to the centre like a pro. Hopefully it wasn't because he was afraid to say no. Greg didn't want him pushing himself too hard because he didn't realize there was another option. He'd have to find a time to ask.

For now, he led Sherlock in to the doctor's office and through to a private room, nodding at some of the other subs who had stopped by for medication or vitamin shots. The doctor would join them when he had a moment.

"Alright, Sherlock?" Greg asked, nudging the sub over to sit down on the medical bench before going ahead and putting on the kettle. The casual atmosphere and homey decor of the doctor's office usually put subs at ease, but Sherlock was looking rather pale. "Dr. Stamford might want to have a look at your legs, but I'll tell him to hold off until later. We're just here for the vitamins, like I said. Okay?"

Sherlock nodded, but looked fairly miserable. Thankfully Mike was quick to join them, a tray with the necessary supplies in hand. "Morning Sherlock, Greg. This won't take but a second and you'll be on your way."

"Should I take off my jumper?" Sherlock's voice wavered. Greg abandoned the kettle, clicking it off again in favor of coming over to offer his hand.

"I just need an arm," Mike told him with a smile, as he ripped open an alcohol swab. "If you can push your sleeve up a bit, that'll do."

Sherlock pushed up his sleeve as instructed and then grabbed Greg's hand, holding it in a vice-like grip.

"Slight pinch here-- deep breath in... And done." The jab didn't take long, and Mike was quick to tape down a cotton ball over the site. "You did wonderfully."

"Thanks, Mike," Greg said, when Sherlock failed to reply. The sub seemed a bit frozen. As Mike bustled from the room, Greg put Sherlock's sleeve to rights and tried to catch his gaze. "Sherlock? Sherlock, it's done. We're all done now. You ready for breakfast?"

Sherlock blinked slowly at him. "Y-yeah," he murmured, letting go of Greg's hand, finally, and reaching out to touch the bit of tape and cotton beneath his jumper. "Sorry."

"It's fine."  Greg nodded toward the door, letting Sherlock get up at his own pace. "You alright? That wasn't so bad, was it? It was over pretty quick."

"It was, ah..." The expression on Sherlock's face as he spoke was a familiar one. A sub that didn't want to disagree with what a Dom had just said, but clearly did. Before Greg could jump in, Sherlock changed tacks. "I don't like needles very much."

"Well for not liking needles very much, you did brilliantly," Greg assured him as they head toward the cafeteria. "You were incredibly brave. Thanks to those shots you won't have to push your body as hard to get back to a normal eating schedule, so there's always a silver lining."

Sherlock was quiet, apparently taking that silver lining to heart as they went through the food lines. He picked out a single piece of bread for breakfast, not even bothering to toast it, though he did at least take tea. Hopefully this was just a result of anxiety from the vitamin jab and his appetite would return for lunch. If it didn’t, he would try to encourage him, Greg thought as he selected a full breakfast for himself.

When they sat, Sherlock was quiet—not unusual for him, but Greg was beginning to better read the sub’s expressions. “You’re thinking about something, aren’t you? You can tell me.”

Sherlock’s full lips twisted in a frown as he shredded the piece of bread on his plate. “You have to go home today, don’t you? That’s—you’re wearing the shirt from Thursday.”

He was. He only had one spare set of clothes in his office. Technically he could grab a set of sweats if he needed to, but it would be better to get back to his flat and pack a bag.

“Just for a bit,” he said gently. “The plan is to run home quick as I can during your therapy and maybe have you set up in the music room til I get back. You’re so relaxed doing that, I figure you wouldn’t even notice I’m gone. What do you think?”

“If my books come maybe I could read,” Sherlock offered, his gaze skittering around the cafeteria before landing on Greg again. He was nervous about being walked in on by someone he didn’t know, Greg reasoned. Despite his brave face and the strides he was making, Sherlock was definitely still fragile and needed special attention.

“That’s fine by me. I’m going to pack enough things to stay for the week, will that help do you think?”

The sub considered that offer as Greg dug into his breakfast. “If you bring things to stay for a week, you can always go home if you don’t need to. But if you don’t then you would have to keep running home. So… yes. I think that would help.”

“Good, that’s what I’ll do then,” Greg said with a smile. He had a long drink of his juice and was relieved to see that Sherlock was subconsciously mirroring him, drinking his tea as well. Good. It looked like most of the bread had been turned to crumbs rather than pieces that actually made it into the young man’s mouth, but at least he was hydrated. “So, how was yesterday? Do you want to slow it down a bit today?”

“How do you mean?”

“You did a lot of work yesterday, more than some do in a week, but you also had a pretty big nightmare,” Greg pointed out. “Do you want to take it a bit easier? If you do that’s just fine, and the same if you want to push. You should know that this goes at your pace.”

“Yesterday was hard,” Sherlock admitted to his tea after a long moment. “But I… I think it was mostly John that threw me off. You said it would be hard for a while.”

“That's true, but if you need a break, Sherlock, then you get one. I'm so proud of you and all the work you've done so far. It's utterly fantastic. There's no shame in needing a break.”

“Thank you,” Sherlock replied softly, glancing down at his tea and biting at his lip. “I... thanks.”

“Glad to be of service,” Greg told him with a smile, as he finished off his meal. “Are you all done? We got a bit of a late start this morning. John should be ready for you now.”

Sherlock visibly startled at that, expression crumpling a bit even as he nodded. Greg stopped him.

“Are you alright? Do you want me to push it back a bit so we can have our time first? He'll just call someone else up.”

“Please?” Sherlock whispered, keeping his gaze low. “I don't... I don't want to stop, I just... that was the hardest part of yesterday.”

“Not a problem,” Greg told him, quickly pulling out his phone to send John a quick text. He was proud of Sherlock for asking for what he wanted and told the young man so, offering him another smile.  Before he could say anything else another submissive was paged to John's office on the overhead speakers. “Now, you want to talk here or in my office again, like yesterday?”

They ended up back in Greg's office, sitting on the sofa with about a foot of space between them. Greg had thought this was a better bet than the chairs if Sherlock needed physical comfort and reassurance again, but it didn't seem entirely likely now. The sub's body language was closed off, his arms folded protectively over his chest as he considered Greg's request to try and articulate what was difficult about yesterday's session with John.

“He... he asked me about my burns,” Sherlock admitted after a moment. “He made me angry.”

“He does that sometimes,” Greg explained, pulling one leg up and turning sideways on the sofa to face Sherlock better. “The goal is to make you angry so that you realize you have a reason to be angry. That you have a reason to feel mistreated and hurt.”

“It was hard.” Sherlock's gaze was locked on the floor. “But effective, I guess?”

“Was it effective, or did it just hurt?” Greg pressed, watching him but not trying to force his gaze. Sometimes these conversations were just easier without eye contact. He'd done enough pushing yesterday, he wasn't going to do it today. “He'll ask you for feedback today, to see if that worked. If not you can try something else. He won't make you mad on purpose most days. That's just a... shock to the system of sorts. Gets you to realize that you're worth more than your old Doms ever said.”

“I don't know.” Sherlock nibbled at his lip, a clear tell of his uneasiness. “I just-- I'm not sure one day is going to convince me that everything any of them ever said was wrong. I want to believe it was, that you're both right, but I don't. Not yet.”

“No, of course one day isn't going to. It's more about implanting that idea. Today he'll be going slower, asking what you want out of therapy. How fast you want to go, those sort of things,” Greg reassured him, feeling some of his own worries ease at Sherlock's confession. That was what he was worried about? That he hadn't overthrown years of brainwashing in a single afternoon?

“You'll adjust, Sherlock. It's difficult, but you can do it. This is just the beginning, and we understand that it's going to take a while. It's a long road, but you're an amazing young man and you can do it.”

Finally Sherlock's posture relaxed a bit, his arms falling to his sides and his head ducking down a bit, cheeks flushing as he took in Greg's praise. He shifted closer on the sofa and reached out for Greg's hand, which Greg gave quickly.

“I'd like to talk about goals with you, Sherlock,” Greg told him, squeezing their joined hands gently. “Short term and long term, so that you have something specific you're working toward. What do you think? What do you want to get out of being here with us?”

The lip nibbling was back, but Sherlock at least hadn't retreated completely. “I... I'm not sure?” He looked away and Greg gave him a moment to try and compose his thoughts. “I just want to feel safe and... not afraid anymore.”

Greg nodded. “I think that could be a long term goal and a short term goal, feeling a bit safer every week? We could keep track of them on a list, on a scale of 1 to 100, how safe you feel?”

He gave Sherlock's hand a squeeze before disengaging, hopping up just far enough to grab a pad of paper and pen from his desk.  Once he sat back down he propped the pad on his knee and sketched out two columns. “Days here and then what number safe you're feeling in this one?”

“It--” Sherlock began, but he stopped himself. Greg watched him for a moment, then offered the pen.

“What are you thinking?”

“It'd be better as a graph,” the sub suggested, a nervous tremor in his voice. Clearly he was uncertain how Greg would receive the rough sketch he was making at the bottom of the page. “With the days here, on the x axis, and safety ranked on the y axis, maybe from -100 to 100, with 0 as neutral.”

“That's brilliant,” Greg replied honestly. “Really, Sherlock. Every day you can give me a number and I'll mark the graph so we can plot how you're doing. You can always plot it on the computer later if you want to.”

“I'm not so good at computers.”  Sherlock fiddled with the pen a moment, before glancing up at Greg again. “No chance to learn, really. But-- do you have graph paper? Or printer paper and a ruler?”

“Of course, just a mo—”  Clearly he’d been going about this all the wrong way. He fished an old pad of graph paper from the bottom drawer of his desk and welcomed Sherlock over. “You can do it up however you like on that. We offer classes on computers too, you know. I’m sure you’d pick it up pretty quick if you wanted to learn.”

“Maybe,” the sub replied softly, sitting down in Greg’s desk chair and bending immediately to work on the graph. He didn’t elaborate any more, focused on marking and labeling his graph.

“This is really great stuff,” Greg offered, watching as Sherlock wrote out the label for each axis in small, precise script. “I thought they didn’t teach this kind of thing until later in school?”

“One of Felix’s friends left his books when they were going out somewhere once. I didn’t have much time to read them—it was just a few hours. But he studied maths and I had a quick look.”

“A quick look and you got all that…” Greg gave the young man’s shoulder a quick squeeze. “You really are a star, Sherlock. You go on and fill that out. You mind if I schedule some appointments while you do?”

A few minutes and several emails later, he glanced up to find Sherlock settling beside him on the sofa again, his new graph in hand.

“Can I see?” he asked, setting his phone aside. Sherlock edged closer, but frowned down at the pad of paper. He angled it to show Greg. The graph started at _Day -1_ which was marked at a -90. _Day 0_ was -80.  The rest of the graph hadn’t been marked.

“I started with the day before I got here, then day zero for when I arrived, then one for when I started the program, but…” the sub admitted, drawing his lower lip between his teeth. “I was terrified that first day. It got better by the evening. I don’t know how to account for that.”

“That’s okay, Sherlock, never feel guilty for feeling a certain way. Even if it doesn’t fit on the graph. I’m so proud of you.” He reached out to squeeze Sherlock’s hand, giving him an encouraging smile. “Do you mind filling out the rest? I won’t look, if it bothers you.”

He made a show of unlocking his phone as Sherlock consulted the paper in front of him again, until the sub offered it to him. Days one and two were marked at -78 and -75 respectively, which by Greg’s standard was an amazing improvement. Sherlock was a far cry from a neutral zero or a secure and safe 100, but that was still a marked and impressive development in just a few days. He grinned at the young man.

“This is really excellent,” he said, carefully tearing the page from the pad of graph paper. “Really, Sherlock. I’m going to put this in your file and you can tell me when we have our sessions where you’re at. Just so you know, it’s okay to have bad days, too. You can go backward, that’s allowed. Feel however you feel and sod anyone who says differently.”

Sherlock curled closer, tucking his feet up beneath him and leaning slightly in to Greg, averting his gaze as he spoke. “I just… I don’t want to mess up. I don’t want to disappoint you.”

“Being honest with me will never be a disappointment,” Greg told him, wrapping his arm around the skinny young man. “Honesty will make me the happiest Dom in the world, I promise you that. Even when you’re at level four and honesty is telling me to bugger off.”

“I don’t think I’d do that,” Sherlock said, mouth twisting. His file had marked him an incalcitrant—no doubt he’d been punished for talking back in the past. Greg knew they would have to work up to that type of honesty.  “But… thank you.”

“Not a problem,” Greg assured him. “We can decide on other goals for you tomorrow as well, but we really do have to get going for you to see John now. Alright?”

“You’ll come find me when you get back?” Sherlock asked, making no move to get up. Greg got to his feet and then knelt before the sofa, taking the sub’s hands.

“If you need me, you just use that beeper. I’ll come back as fast as I can,” he promised, letting his thumbs stroke reassuringly over Sherlock’s soft hands. He looked so nervous. “Once you get into those books of yours, you’ll hardly notice I’m not here. And I’ll tell John to be nice, today.”

For a moment, he wondered if Sherlock would refuse and beg him to stay, but not for the first time that day the sub surprised him, giving a small decisive nod. He was a star, he really was, Greg thought. After everything he’d suffered, he was still willing to try and to trust. He’d make the trip home in record time and pack a bag so that he’d be able to give Sherlock all the support he needed to recover. Because that was his job, he reminded himself stubbornly. Because that’s what he’d do for any of his subs.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Moving to single pov chapters from now on I think. They keep growing in length.
> 
> I've been hemming and hawing over putting a Trigger Warning for Disordered Eating on here. Sherlock's eating habits at the moment are unhealthy and I don't want to surprise anyone with that. It's an issue and it will eventually be addressed, though not in this chapter. I welcome your thoughts on if I should tag for it or for anything else up there.

John offered Sherlock the same blanket from yesterday and a warm smile as they settled in. Greg had lived up to his promise, explaining outright that John should “go easy” and that Sherlock would be alone for a while after therapy, while he ran home. Sherlock had wondered if the therapist would be annoyed by the demands, but John took it in stride and remained friendly and open in his expression even when the door had closed and it was just the two of them.

“I’m sorry about yesterday,” he said, once Sherlock had wrapped himself up. “Sometimes my methods work, but other times they’re too much. I had hoped that getting you angry would help you, but it looks like it just upset you.”

A little startled by the apology, Sherlock said nothing. In his experience Doms didn’t usually bother apologizing to subs. They just didn’t. They didn’t have to.

“Let’s try a different method. If you had a choice right now, to leave the centre and go about your own life or go get a new Dom, would you take it?”

“No,” Sherlock said immediately, not even needing a moment to consider. “I’d stay.”

“Can you tell me why?”

“I like it here.” Sherlock fiddled with the edge of the blanket and then, realizing that perhaps that wasn’t a detailed enough answer, tried to elaborate. “I have things, and there’s food, and it’s safe.”

“Those are all good reasons,” John encouraged him. “What kind of things do you have? Do you know why you like them? Is it their function, the comfort, or the fact that they are legally yours?”

“I have clothes and a little otter. Greg helped me order books from the library yesterday, so I’ll get to have those for a while too. I… I guess I like all of those things about them.”

“A little otter?” John frowned, glancing up from his notebook. “Not a real otter?”

“A stuffed toy,” Sherlock said, shaking his head. Across from him John made an ‘ah’ face of understanding. “I didn’t pick out everything I could from the catalogue, but those are the things I did get.”

“Saving them up?” John asked. “Sherlock, that’s excellent. It must have taken a lot of self-control not to just get everything you could. I know it’s not the same, but when I came back from active duty, where you can only have so many possessions, I just about spent a month’s rent on knickknacks.”

“It wasn’t so hard. I didn’t want to waste my options.”

“That’s very sensible,” John told him with a smile. “You’re very responsible, I can tell.”

Sherlock felt his cheeks glow a bit at the compliment, and tugged the blanket up higher. Greg had said something similar. That he was mature. That he was good. He wasn’t used to hearing those things.

“Now, I know it’s only been three days, but how are things going with Greg? I was surprised to hear he was assigned to you, given how many subs are on his roster right now. I would have thought you’d go to someone else. Are you happy with him? Everything seem okay?”

Sherlock nodded immediately, not wanting John or anyone else to get in their head that he was unhappy or that Greg shouldn’t be assigned to him. He’d had no idea that Greg had that many other subs, but he certainly didn’t want to trade him for anyone else.

“He—he’s been wonderful. When I first got here I was horrible, but he helped me. He was kind.”

“Horrible? Do you mind telling me what happened?”

Sherlock chewed on his lip for a moment, hands clenching in the blanket.

“I—um. I was afraid of all the guards. No one had told me what was going on and they were holding me, dragging me through the building. I didn’t know what was happening. I fought them. I tried to kick them and bite them and—they cuffed me and then they—they put me in the chair in his office. The one with all the straps? And they strapped me down so I couldn’t move.” He curled up, bringing his knees to his chest and focusing on them instead of John.

“I shouted at Greg and I swore at him. I didn’t want him to touch me. But he just… talked me down. Anyone else would have been mad, or punished me and he didn’t. He understood.”

“He’s quite good at that,” John said with a nod. “Must have spotted you were distressed and did his best to help. He’s a big old softie. I’m really glad you’re matched with him, Sherlock. Are you happy about it, though?”

“I’m happy that it’s him,” Sherlock said honestly. “I… I mean, I don’t know who else it could have been, so I don’t know how it might have gone, but he’s… he’s been so understanding and kind. He… I—yes. I’m happy about it. That it’s him.” He wasn’t sure how to articulate the fondness that he felt for Greg. Every time he needed something, or felt anxious about something, Greg stepped up to help him with a smile that said it was okay to need help. The man was remarkable.

“That’s good. It’s good that you have a positive relationship with him, especially so early on. Now, I get access to the notes that Greg keeps on you. I’m not going to share these with you, but sometimes something comes up that I feel we need to discuss. Last night you had a nightmare. Do you know what set it off?”

The warmth he’d felt from thinking about Greg dissolved as John changed the subject. He nodded, but when John didn’t press with another question, realized he was expected to explain.

“What we talked about. My old master. I… I was alone in my room and I felt—a bit safe, but then in the dream he came back and he tore it all apart.”

“Oh, Sherlock, I’m sorry. He sounds like a right wanker.” John jotted down another note, then looked back up at Sherlock with concern. “Did you have nightmares before you got here? When you were with your other Doms? You don’t have to give me any details, just a yes or no is okay.”

“After my first Dom. They started after I left her.”

“So these are a normality in your life. How often do you get them and how severe are they?”

“Most nights,” Sherlock admitted, though doing so felt like he was admitting a defect. “But I can generally— they’re not always as bad as that one was. I can usually handle them on my own.”

“Do they interrupt your sleep?” John asked, digging deeper. “Last night it obviously did, but is that a regular occurrence?”

“I stay up more often than not, once they’ve woken me.” Sherlock chewed on his lip, not liking how bad this sounded. He wanted to be honest with John, but he didn’t want to be broken. “It’s not so bad.”

“Does the lack of sleep affect your daily life? Do you have trouble with napping, not functioning at full pistons?”

“I—” Sherlock paused, not sure how to answer that. “I’m not sure. I’m tired sometimes. But—I mean, before, at my master’s home, I didn’t have much of anything to do during the day. It just… it only bothered me sometimes.”

John nodded, sitting forward in his chair and telling him, “Sherlock, I’m going to recommend that you start on a short term dosage of sleep aids, just to help for the next little while. Getting you running at full steam is important to helping you recover, and if you’re having nightmares then it will help you sleep more calmly.”

He trusted John. He didn’t particularly like the idea, but he trusted John, like he trusted Greg, and John was explaining what the medicine would do. It would probably be fine, and hopefully he would adjust quickly and not have to take them. “Okay,” he said with a small nod.

“Alright, we’ll start with a basic ‘get to sleep’ aid, not anything that keeps you asleep. So if you have a nightmare you can wake up, but you’ll be much calmer and able to get back to sleep. If the nightmares are still bothering you, we can explore other options, but I think this is the best place to start.”

“They won’t,” Sherlock promised quickly, sitting up a bit as well. “They’ll get better. It’ll be fine.”

“Sherlock, there’s no shame in taking medications, you know that don’t you?” There was a frown on John’s face now, which Sherlock didn’t like at all.

“It means you’re broken,” he replied thickly, looking down at his knees again. “You can’t—you can’t do what everybody else is doing naturally.”

“It means that something in your life has made it so that a function has failed,” John corrected, voice gentle but firm. “And that you’re smart enough to realize that you need some help. You know… after I got back home from Afghanistan, I was on a couple of things to help with my PTSD.”

Sherlock thought about that for a moment. It made sense. If a Dom like John could admit that he needed help, then maybe Sherlock could as well. It didn’t make him any less terrified of the prospect, but it made him determined to see it through.

“I… I don’t like medicine,” he admitted softly. “Pills, or shots, or hospitals—any of it. I had a Dom who was a med student once.”

Immediately John was on his feet, crossing to the sofa and sinking down beside Sherlock, watching him urgently. “Could you talk to me about this? It doesn’t sound nice, but it would help me understand where you’re coming from and how we should go about medications.”

Sherlock shook his head, inhaling sharply and trying not to panic. “Not today. Please? I—not if Greg’s not going to be here after. I don’t want to go there, not right now.”

“Okay,” John soothed, offering him a reassuring smile and writing something down. “That’s understandable. I’m going to make a note in your file that says your uncomfortable with hospitals and medical equipment so that all the other Doms know, in case you fall down and break an arm or catch a nasty flu. Is that a good compromise?”

Pushing down on the panic, Sherlock nodded. He didn’t have to talk about it. John wasn’t going to press. “Sorry,” he mumbled.

“You don’t have to apologize. This happens at your pace and right now you want to slow down. No problems there,” John assured him with a smile. Sherlock edged a little closer to where he was sitting, not quite leaning into him. It was a little easier to talk this way, not facing him.

“Did you have nightmares, when you came back?”

“I did, yeah. For a long time.” John’s hand moved to his shoulder, rubbing at the joint. Where he was injured, Sherlock thought. “It’s difficult to go through a trauma and try to come back to normality.”

Sherlock turned, leaning against the back of the sofa and watching the doctor carefully. “But you got better.”

“I did. It took a long time and a lot of work, but I did and… Sherlock, once in a while, I still have nightmares. After a particularly bad day they can happen, but I get up and get moving.”

“Did you take sleep aids?” he asked, biting his lip.

“For a while I did. Had to, couldn’t function without them. When you’re a doctor you have to be on at work and I was hardly awake,” John admitted.

“That sounds hard.” At least for Sherlock the only life on the line was his own.

“It was, but I got through it and I know that you can too. It takes time, which is the worst part about it. You want to be better, but it’s not happening fast enough.”

That didn’t sound like a very enticing road ahead of him. How did John know that he could make it? He glanced up, startled when the man offered him the slip of paper with his prescription on it.

“Is there anything else you want to discuss today? Our time is about up.”

Sherlock shook his head and stood, carefully folding the blanket that John had loaned him. He glanced nervously at the door but didn’t move toward it.

“You just need to drop that script at the chemist. Then you’re going to wait in your room for Greg to get back, right?” John asked, taking back the blanket and putting it away. Sherlock nodded.

“Can I wait until he gets back to do that?” The paper crumpled slightly in his hand.

“Yes, that’s not a problem,” John said, locking his notebook in his drawer. He looked up again at Sherlock and offered him a small smile. “Sherlock, would you like me to walk you up to your room?”

Relief fell from Sherlock’s shoulders. The thought of making the trek through the halls, past unknown Doms and subs alike had been gnawing on him. “Please.”

 

His books were there when he got to his room. John bid him farewell with a smile and a promise that Greg would be back as soon as he could. In the meantime, Sherlock ran his hands over the stack of books—eight titles in total. Two textbooks, three other non-fiction, and three novels. His, for two weeks. Grinning to himself, giddy from his bounty, he sat down at once to dig in.

For a while he was content perusing the books, though he wished that he had approved some of his other selections from the catalogue. He could have gotten the notebook, to track his thoughts or other sources he wanted to look up on the library’s website. The catalogue and pen Greg had brought him were still on his desk, along with the other papers and pamphlets that Greg had brought him that first day. He hadn’t given them a glance.

Curious now, he stacked his books on the bedside table and drew the small pile of papers toward him to look over.

 _What to Expect at St Bartholomew’s Centre for Submissives,_ one proclaimed in large block letters. _What is Rehabilitation?_ another read. He found himself skimming the material, anxious for a reason he couldn’t quite identify.

 _“Every sub is different and every sub needs different things emotionally, intellectually, and sexually”_ the rehabilitation pamphlet informed him, before laying out the multi-level program offered at St Bart’s to address those needs. His reading sped up, eyes skimming over the lines until he was just picking up words and phrases. It was an exhaustive program. His stomach churned uncomfortably as he got to some of the expected activities in the higher levels.

Sexual therapy, it said. Mandatory self-play. Once a week minimum partner play.

He dropped the pamphlet and pushed away from the desk, feeling perturbed. It wasn’t until later, though. An obstacle he’d have to face in the future but for now…

Scooping up his otter as he went, he crossed to the bed and settled down against the headboard, where he wrapped himself up in his duvet. He grabbed the first novel from the stack and began to read, determined to be distracted.

 

By the time Greg knocked at his door Sherlock was completely enamoured with the book, a murder mystery so enthralling that he missed the first knock and nearly startled off the bed at the second and Greg’s curious call of his name.

“Come in,” he replied, looking round for something to mark his page. He ended up setting the book upside down on his pillow.

“Hey there, how did everything go?” Greg asked, stepping inside. He was freshly dressed and showered, offering Sherlock a smile. Sherlock immediately felt a bit more relaxed just seeing him, knowing he was back. “Alright?”

“It was… fine,” Sherlock admitted. It was, wasn’t it? He’d made it through to the other side. “How are you?”

“Pretty good! Traffic was excellent, which is pretty unusual—guess I missed the rush.” He offered Sherlock a hand up. “You hungry? I’m half-starved.”

Though he wasn’t really, Sherlock conceded that it was lunch time and followed Greg down to the cafeteria. “Thank you for the books you picked out. They were a very good distraction.”

“Oh, not a problem. We’ll get you familiar with a computer and you’ll be able to pick out your own in no time,” Greg assured him as they approached the line. “Thinking of getting just tea, or something heartier? I think I’ll have the pasta.”

“I might have some toast… or a piece of fruit?” There was a fresh fruit basket at the end of the hot food line that did look tempting. Not many of his previous Doms had kept fresh food on hand or wanted to waste it on him.

“Some fruit would be great. Maybe a piece of fruit and a bagel?”

Sherlock’s expression twisted, uncertain. He wasn’t sure he’d be able to manage all of that. “I can try.”

“Just as much as you can stomach and as much as you want,” Greg assured him, passing him a tray and a plate. “Don’t want you getting a stomach ache because you ate too much.”

Reassured, Sherlock nodded and collected a plain bagel from the case and a peach from the fruit bowl. He waited for Greg to pick out his own food before moving to their usual table.

“I might sound a bit like a broken record, Sherlock,” Greg started, when they sat down. “But I want to make sure you know you’re allowed to have what you want here. You want fruit, you can have it. Sweets, you can have them. It doesn’t have to be during meal times, either—the caf is open early and late. There aren’t any rules unless you’re hurting yourself.”

Sherlock nodded, even though what Greg was saying was completely foreign to him. He delayed replying by having a bite of his peach, which was even lovelier and more juicy than he’d imagined. When he finally dragged his gaze back to Greg the other man wasn’t watching him impatiently. He was just getting on with his ravioli. It was that non-judgmental attitude that was most reassuring.

“John prescribed me a sleep aid,” he told the Dom quietly, glancing over his fruit. “Will you come with me to drop it off?”

“Course,” Greg nodded. He didn’t seem to mind what Sherlock had just admitted, or find it unusual in any way, which only served to reinforce what John had told him earlier. Sherlock still didn’t like the idea, but he felt a little easier about it, especially when Greg went on, “We can go after lunch. They’ll deliver it to your room before bedtime, no worries. And that sort of thing, that’s for you to take when you feel you need to. Some meds might not be as optional and we’ll talk about that if it comes up, but this is just for you, so don’t feel pressured.”

“John said it would help.” Sherlock took a few more bites of his peach, feeling the juice run down his chin. He quickly wiped it away with a napkin. “I… I was hoping maybe you could come with me to therapy tomorrow.”

Across from him Greg looked up, expression curious.

“I can. Is there a particular reason you’d like me to? Are you not feeling comfortable with John?”

“He’s good,” Sherlock said quickly, shaking his head. “That’s not it. He was nice today. We went slow, like you asked, but he… something came up that I didn’t want to talk about. Not with you gone. I think he’s going to ask tomorrow and I w-won’t have to say it twice to explain to both of you.”

“Okay,” Greg nodded, reaching across the table and offering his hand to Sherlock. Desperate for the reassurance, Sherlock took it. “I’d be happy to come with you. I might not always be able to, but you can ask John to record your sessions in the future so that I can listen to them, with your approval.”

Sherlock found himself nodding as well, watching where their fingers were intertwined. It was still novel, the fact that a Dom’s presence and touch was reassuring and comforting. “Thank you.”

Greg smiled gently and gave his hand a squeeze. “My pleasure, Sherlock.”

When they finished their lunches, Greg insisted they drop Sherlock’s script at the chemist before anything else. It was a painless affair, handing the note to the man at the window who then promised the medicine would be delivered to his room by lights out.

“So, do you feel up for going to a class today?” Greg asked, once that had been taken care of.

“I guess,” Sherlock said, with a little shrug. He didn’t feel poorly, which was what Greg had asked, but he would much prefer to go read or to pick out the rest of his possessions from the catalogue. “Do I have to go?”

“You have to start going soon. Only so long I can let you put it off.” Greg offered him a steady look at that.

“I’ll go tomorrow,” Sherlock promised. “I was hoping I could see the catalogue again? Confirm my other choices?”

“Deal,” Greg said, leading the way to his office. Once there he handed Sherlock another request form, as well as a juice box and a granola bar. “You can keep those in your room, in case you get hungry and don’t want to go down to the caf, alright? Now, you want some privacy to look?”

“Do you mind keeping me company?” Sherlock asked, suddenly unsure of himself. He glanced down at the form. “I—If you have time, I just… was hoping to get your thoughts on some of the stuff I get? If that’s okay?”

“Whatever you choose is a good choice, but I’d be happy to talk it over with you,” Greg replied easily. “My time is yours, Sherlock. Whatever you need me for.”

When they returned to his bedroom, Sherlock took up his spot in bed again, grabbing the catalogue from the desk as he went. He moved the book from earlier to the bedside table, and began to flip through the pages of the catalogue as Greg pulled his desk chair over to sit nearby.

“You still have four items from the bed and bath section, and ten points from personal items to spend,” the Dom reminded him. “What are you thinking about?”

Sherlock set the catalogue down between them, fingers splayed over the pages marked for bed and bath. Initially he’d been looking at the electric toothbrush and a pillow, but now that he’d spent some time at the centre he wondered if his items might be better spent on another blanket. He said as much.

“Or maybe…” he paused, considering the soft looking blue dressing gown pictured near the bottom of the page. “This looks nice.”

“Could do both,” Greg suggested. “Counting your little otter, that’s only three of your five. I know there are some nice soaps in there, too, you might like. You can get basic toiletries from the chemist, of course— getting the standard shampoo wouldn’t cost you an item from the catalogue, but there are some nice scrubs and scented types in there.”

Sherlock nodded thoughtfully, reading over each item description before finally selecting a lavender scented shampoo. He circled it, glancing up at Greg for approval.

“That’s lovely. But only if you really want it, alright? Not just because I suggested it?”

“I do.” Sherlock put a hand self-consciously through his curls. “It’s—it would be nice to have. I like that scent. But I don’t really… I’m not sure about the last item.”

Greg leaned forward to fill out the request form properly, copying the numbers out of the catalogue. “That’s fine, Sherlock. You can always decide later, or bank it. Sometimes the catalogue gets updates. If there’s nothing that interests you now, there might be something next quarter, when the new one comes out.”

“So just the personal items, then?” Sherlock waited until Greg had copied down the required information before flipping to the back of the magazine. “You said ten points?”

“Yep,” Greg confirmed with a nod. “Bigger items cost more—the biggest is ten points, I think? So you can do any combination. A six point item and a four point item, or five two point items. Whatever catches your fancy. And you can bank these points too, if you want to save up for something.”

The first thing that Sherlock picked out was the journaling kit. It came with a notebook and pen for three of his allotted points. He read the number out to Greg, before returning his gaze to the page, looking over the selection of watches.

“I’d like one of these, so I can be on time when classes start,” he said, indicating the watches on the page. He hesitated, before lowering his finger to tap at a small bottle of plain lube. “And maybe… this too?”

“A watch is a good idea,” Greg said, speaking slowly. Sherlock didn’t look up at him, feeling the man’s gaze on him. “Can you talk to me a little about why you want the lube? If that’s what you want to get, then we can write it down, but you don’t sound very sure, and we haven’t really discussed sex at all, so I’m curious.”

Sherlock shifted, pulling his feet up beneath himself. He still didn’t want to look at Greg. “I read— in the pamphlets you left. Later on in the program, there’s going to be sex.”

“Alright, but Sherlock… you do know how long away that is? Don’t you?”

“Level four,” Sherlock said, feeling a defensive panic creeping up his shoulders. Greg sounded confused, but there was nothing to be confused about. “But I don’t want it to… it’ll be better. It’ll hurt less.”

“Yes, level four,” Greg agreed. “Which is ages away for you. Months, at least. But Sherlock, sex shouldn’t hurt. Outside of accidents and masochism—the latter of which is negotiated with consent between both parties--  sex doesn’t hurt.”

“It doesn’t hurt if you use lube,” Sherlock said to his knees. “Most of the time. I… I just want some to be safe.”

“Okay,” Greg said, shifting forward. “You want it to be safe. I just don’t understand why that is. Can you explain it to me? What am I not getting?”

“If I don’t have it, it’ll hurt!” Sherlock bit down on his lip, curling his arms around his knees, hating that the conversation had devolved into this. He could feel panic in his chest, anxiety tight across his shoulders as he hunched into himself. He expected Greg to hit him at any moment, but the man kept his seat, kept his hands to himself.

“Sherlock… when you start having partner play, we supply the lubricant,” the man said gently, after a long moment. Startled, Sherlock blinked up at him.

“It will be there? In the room when we start?”

“Of course. Can you tell me something? If you thought we didn’t supply the lube, or let’s say you ran out and had a play session… what do you think would have happened?”

“S-sometimes if there wasn’t lube, I was allowed to use spit,” Sherlock said, focusing on his knees again, feeling his cheeks flush red. “Or just—if they leaked a lot, that was all. It’s never stopped anyone from carrying on before.”

“Sherlock Holmes,” Greg said tone serious enough to make him look up again. “You will never _ever_ be forced to do something you’re uncomfortable with. That includes having penetrative sex without lubrication. Maybe, just maybe, if that was something you wanted to try later we would let you, but never think that you would be forced into receiving painful sex.”

“Okay,” Sherlock breathed. It was practically too much to believe, but Greg was very insistent. He was firm enough to snap Sherlock from the spiral of panic that had been threatening to overwhelm him.

“Sherlock,” the man said sternly. “You will not be forced to have sex here.” He moved from the desk chair to kneel beside the bed, gathering Sherlock’s hands in his own. “Look at me. I promise, no one will ever do that to you here. At level four there are partner play sessions to refamiliarize subs with their bodies and teach them how to express their boundaries. If that means walking in and telling the Dominant in the room “No thank you, sir or ma’am, I’m not interested in having sex today,” they will respect that and so will I.”

Sherlock wanted to believe him. He wanted to badly, wanted to trust Greg and believe everything the man said. But there was still that lurking fear that something would go wrong. That it would happen anyway. He squeezed Greg’s hands. “M-maybe not the lube, then?”

“If you need it for security, I’ll get you a tube from the chemist. You shouldn’t use any of your personal items just to feel basic security. Would you like me to get you some? Would it help?”

As much as he wanted to say no, Sherlock found himself nodding. Just having it, just knowing that he could prepare himself, that would be a comfort. “Sorry,” he mumbled.

“That’s alright. You’re just fine. You want to pick out your other items, or have a bit of a break?” Greg clambered to his feet, managing to keep hold of Sherlock’s hand while he did so. As soon as he was within reach, Sherlock scooted toward the edge of the bed and wrapped himself around the man. Greg’s arms quickly went around him in return. “You’re alright, Sherlock. You’re safe here.”

Sherlock hid his face against Greg’s side, breathing deeply as he clutched the Dom close for a bit. Greg grabbed for his chair and sat down again, petting Sherlock’s hair with gentle fingers. He didn’t seem in any rush, but was allowing Sherlock a moment to gather himself.

“M-maybe the desk lamp, then?” Sherlock said quietly, feeling a little foolish as he sat up again.

Greg offered him a smile and one last reassuring pat to the head, before nodding back to the catalogue. “Journal, wristwatch and lamp, that would leave you with two more points to spend.” 

Sherlock looked over the two page spread of personal items, gaze skipping nervously over the lube and toys listed, to the other items. There was other jewellery available, less functional than the watch he had selected, but none of it appealed to him. There were posters and various knickknacks—small ornaments and picture frames that one could use to decorate a room—but he was uninterested. None of the items that cost two points caught his attention, even though they were things that he could have and he hadn’t had things in a very long time.

“If you’re not sure, why don’t we bank those points for now,” Greg suggested, clearly sensing that Sherlock was getting frustrated with himself. “You can keep that copy of the catalogue and just ask me for another request form any time, alright? I’ll put this form in today though, so you can get the things you’ve decided on.”

Nodding, Sherlock passed him the catalogue so he could finish filling out the form. He looked to his stack of books instead and retrieved the novel he’d been forced to set aside earlier that day.

“Do… do you mind staying with me for a bit?”  Surely Greg had more important things to do than sit with him. “I wanted to show you—all my books came. I could show you which ones I’m most excited about?”

“Sherlock, I can stay with you for as long as you like,” Greg said, setting aside the form and pen. “You haven’t finished them all yet, have you? We can order more any time, if you have.” Sherlock glanced up to find Greg smiling at him. He was teasing a bit, it seemed, but he was honest too. Sherlock smiled shyly in return.

“I haven’t finished them all. I really only started reading this one properly,” he told him, holding up the mystery novel. “I—I didn’t get very far, but it’s… I’m glad you chose it for me.”

“Had a feeling you’d like it,” Greg said, clearly pleased. “Seems right up your alley, in fact. The more I thought about it, the more I saw you as the detective.”

“You think so?” Sherlock could feel his cheeks warming. “It’s… I like that he does things. Even though he’s a sub.”

“I do think so. You’re both very clever. And subs should be able to do things, you know. Whatever things they want. The restrictions placed on submissives are an invention of modern society, it—” he broke off suddenly, and Sherlock looked up at him again. For a moment Greg met his gaze silently, then went on. “It wasn’t always like this. You know, you can apply for what he has: legal emancipation.”

The bottom dropped out of Sherlock’s stomach and he looked away, overwhelmed by the vastness of that possibility. It had never been offered to him before. Legal emancipation was life without a Dom. Superficially it could be the answer… away from all the abuse he had endured. But also away from the protection that Doms like Greg and the rest at the centre offered. Away from the possibility of peace.

“I’m not sure you should have told me that.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know that you… didn’t know. I just assumed because you’d read the story that you understood…” Greg got to his feet, clearly unsettled.

“No, please— stay? I…” He frowned down at the book in his hands. “The rest of it is fiction, so I just assumed that part was too.” He gave Greg an uncertain smile. “To be fair, I’m only halfway through it. I just… never realized I had that option.”

“I should have realized. You were moved at fifteen, how could you have known?” Greg said, sitting down beside him on the bed. He offered his hand again. “I shouldn’t have sprung it on you. Would you like me to get you some law books, some simple ones about sub rights?”

Sherlock nodded, leaning into Greg, searching for reassurance again. There was so much about the world he didn’t know. It was horrifying. Terrifying. He hesitated, running a thumb over the cover of the novel. “Is there any way I could get a copy of this for myself? With—with my last two points, maybe? I’ve never read anything like it.”

Greg gave him a squeeze, laughing softly. “I can get one for you, if that’s what you want. It’s no trouble at all. I’m pleased as punch you like it, really.”

Sherlock was fairly certain he would never get used to this experience of asking for something and being given it. He believed Greg when he said he would get the book for him, even though Sherlock had a perfectly serviceable library copy in hand. He didn’t make Sherlock earn it in any way.

“You want to read some more?” Greg asked. “Figure out whodunnit?”

“Is that okay? You don’t have to stay if you don’t want to…”

“Do you want me to stay? That’s the most important bit, what you want. If you’re not sure, that’s fine too though.” Sherlock was sure, shyly invited him to sit beside him on the bed. “Do you mind if I work?”

“I don’t mind.” Sherlock shifted beneath the duvet and curled up with his back against the wall and his book propped against his knees. He offered a bit of blanket to Greg as well, who had abandoned the desk chair in favour of sitting on the bed beside him.

It was comfortable like this, brushing shoulders with Greg, who had his phone out to reply to emails or whatever it was that the Dom did when he was working. Sherlock let himself relax, forgetting about the stressful conversations they’d had and falling into the story until, after a few hours, he also fell asleep.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have a distraction from the imminent self-destruct of tumblr. God knows I need one. Meet some of Greg's other charges in this chapter. Hope you enjoy.

While Sherlock immersed himself in the sub detective book, Greg took care of what he could on his phone. There was plenty to do; he’d been on staff longest at St Bart’s and was often asked to see in on other cases, on top of making sure his own seven subs in program were taken care of.  Even though he’d pushed back and reassigned most of his meetings, there were was still much to do.

Dimmock had a sub in rehabilitation that insisted he belonged in retraining, and he was asking for advice. Greg’s level five, Zared, reported that on his last unchaperoned outing he met a Dominant that he wanted to bring back to the facility for a date, which meant a background check needed to be arranged. A woman had emailed Greg out of the blue, informing him that she was Malik’s aunt; the sub was level two in the rehabilitation program and hadn’t reported any family—Greg’s instincts said stalker, but he needed to coordinate with Malik’s therapist to inform him of the situation.

He also had two emails from families enquiring about the progress of subs in the retraining program, and three updates from different subs that had graduated out of the program and were living either with their families or a Dom. One was a brief request for a home visit that had him worried. They always encouraged subs to reach out if they found themselves in a bad situation; that Gareth hadn’t called or provided any more details was troubling.

Albin’s second partner play session had gone much better than the first, much to the relief of all parties involved. He had given his approval for John to send Greg his notes on the debriefing, given Greg’s current occupation. Greg would have to find a spare minute sometime to praise him for doing so well.

A knock came at the door, but didn’t seem to rouse Sherlock from his slumber. Greg carefully extricated himself and greeted the chemist’s runner, who handed over Sherlock’s sleeping pills. He thanked the man quietly and turned back to the sub slumped upright on the bed.

It took just a bit of gentle coaxing to get Sherlock to lay down fully, so that he wouldn’t wake with an aching back or neck. Greg rescued his book and marked the page, setting it on the bedside table before scrawling a note instructing the sub to use his beeper when he woke. If Sherlock had fallen asleep this easily his body needed the rest and Greg was going to give it to him.

Once he had closed the door to Sherlock’s room behind him he had about five seconds of peace before he was surrounded by curious subs.

“Sir!”

“Mr. Lestrade?”

“That’s the new boy’s room, is he—”

“Sir, why haven’t we—”

He held up a hand to stem the tide of questions and exclamations, while his other hand went automatically to Malik’s hair, as the older sub knelt silently at his feet. Coming from a dangerously strict home, the sub’s engrained behaviours were much more formal than many of the rest, but Greg wouldn’t begrudge him that comfort.

“Hush now, you lot,” he told the other four that had approached him as well. He’d caught them returning from afternoon class, it seemed. “He’s sleeping. You’ll meet him when he’s good and ready, which you know already. I know John told you, because I asked him to.”

Some of the group shifted uncomfortably, chastened.

“Come on, let’s go down here,” he said, nodding to the little gathering area at the end of the hall where a sofa and two comfy chairs were set up. It seemed a better choice than gabbing right outside Sherlock’s door.

He urged Malik to his feet with a light tap and ushered the group toward the sitting area, unsurprised to find himself sandwiched on the sofa by Leith and Oliver, third level subs—one in retraining and one in rehabilitation. Malik settled at his feet again, while his level fours took over one of the chairs. Albin perched on the arm while Trevor curled in the seat, leaning toward Greg.

“Well, sir?” Trevor asked, once everyone had settled in. Greg felt like he was giving story time or something. He shook his head.

“I’m not telling you lot anything, so you can get that out of your head right now,” he said firmly. “Nothing you don’t already know, at least. His name is Sherlock and he’s in rehab.”

He paused, glancing down at the tense figure at his feet, before carrying on a bit more gently. “Which means he’s my priority right now; he needs the most help and support. You’ve all got your back-up Doms… just keep doing what you’re doing. I’m reading your reports and if you need me—really need me, you can ask and if I can get away to help I will. Once he’s settled in a bit more, maybe a week or two at the outside, things will go back to normal.”

“Is that when we’ll get to meet him?” Oliver asked from his left side, sitting pretzel style on the sofa. “I tried to smile at him in the cafeteria, but he doesn’t even look at anyone. Not even other subs.”

Greg couldn’t tell them anything without betraying Sherlock’s confidences, but even before he’d opened his mouth to repeat his words from earlier Leith cut in.

“Maybe he’s just a prick,” the young man said sullenly. Greg wasn’t entirely surprised, but gave him a sharp rap on the knee and a stern look. Even though Leith was at level three and had witnessed Greg spend the usual transition period with newcomers twice now, he was still handling it poorly.

“Or he’s in a new place, surrounded by new people and overwhelmed, just like you were,” Albin said, clearly addressing Leith but not bothering to look at him. “How long was it before you came out of your room?”

Right. There was a reason they didn’t have hall meetings like this very often. Greg stood before anything could escalate.

“Alright, that’s enough. Leith, Oliver—you’ve got group therapy in twenty minutes, yeah? Why don’t you head down early. Malik, you’re seeing John at four as well. Go ahead and head down with them.” He gave the sub’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “Albin, we’ll talk later. Trevor, you come up to my office with me, yeah? I’d like a word.”

It took a moment and some encouragement to get the subs to move off, leaving him with Trevor, who followed him up to his office.

“You’re not in trouble,” Greg told him, noticing the young man seemed a bit quieter and more subdued than usual. “It’s alright.”

“I know I’m not in trouble. I haven’t done anything wrong,” Trevor said simply, taking the kneeling stool in front of Greg’s desk without being told. He fidgeted, twisting his fingers together. “This is about the new sub, though, isn’t it?

“Some. But it’s also about you. You’ve been at level four for a few months now and I think you’re in a good place to become a mentor.” He nodded at the blue collar Trevor wore around his neck to indicate his level. “What do you think?”

“Really?” Trevor grinned for a moment, clearly enamoured by the idea. He’d been informally mentoring some of the newer subs just by being himself, but Greg knew he was ready to take on the more serious responsibility. He watched as the sub visibly reigned himself in. “You’re looking for a mentor for Sherlock. But… you want me and not Albin? Even though he’s—y’know? Further along?”

Greg nodded, but didn’t elaborate. He couldn’t, not without getting Sherlock’s permission.

For a moment Trevor was quiet too, watching his fingers as he thought. Finally he looked up at Greg, expression worried. “He’s had it pretty bad then, huh?”

“You’d be a good match,” Greg admitted. “But don’t make this decision for anyone but yourself. You don’t have to choose now, but I wanted to present it to you. You know first-hand how much the mentor system helps from the side of the mentee, but we know how much it helps the mentors process and grow as well.”

Trevor nodded. “I want to. I think… I want to help. I like to help, you know that. And I feel ready. I think.”

Greg gave him a smile, feeling proud. “Alright, let’s go through some of it. I’ll mention it to Sherlock and set up a time for the two of you to meet soon, hopefully.”

He spent the next hour with Trevor, before sending him off with a promise to keep him updated. Now that he had access to his computer he added notes to Sherlock’s file and started a small unofficial log of what the sub had been eating, as it was still next to nothing. That could be one reason for his low energy. He made a few more notes and sent a report to his supervisor, startling when his phone buzzed with a notification from the beeper.

Greg didn’t outright sprint through the halls and down the stairs, but it was a near thing. He’d asked Sherlock to beep him, so it likely wasn’t an emergency, but there was no way of knowing for certain until he was there. He barely paused outside the sub’s door before knocking, letting himself in quickly at Sherlock’s call.

“Everything alright?” He did at least try to pretend he wasn’t out of breath. Sherlock was sitting up, curls rumpled gloriously, holding the note Greg had left. He frowned a bit.

“You said to call when I woke? Nothing’s wrong.”

Greg nodded. “Hope you don’t mind. There were a few things I needed to take care of. Glad everything’s alright. It’s habit for me to rush—never sure with the beepers what’s an emergency and what isn’t.”

“My prescription came,” Sherlock said softly. He looked at the bottle of pills with a small grimace.

“Don’t you worry about those until bedtime. Ready for dinner?”

Together they headed for the elevator, though Sherlock didn’t seem terribly enthusiastic about it.

“I’m not very hungry,” he admitted, as they started down. Greg despaired at that but kept it off his face. If Sherlock didn’t start upping his calorie consumption soon they were going to have problems. “There will be more fruit though, right?”

“As much as you want,” Greg promised, latching on to that. Maybe they just weren’t finding the right things for Sherlock to eat. “You can try a few types, if that’s what you like. Sometimes they have fruit salad—melon chunks and grapes, mostly. And there’s always ice cream for dessert. You like ice cream?”

Sherlock blinked at him, brow furrowed. “It’s for children.”

“What?” Greg couldn’t stop his surprise and wondered immediately where Sherlock had picked that up. There’d be time to dig into it later, but for now they’d arrived at the caf. “Everybody can enjoy ice cream, Sherlock. There’s no age limit. Pick your dinner and we’ll grab some for dessert.”

Once he finished setting up his plate of roast and veg he found Sherlock at the end of the line, his tray containing an apple and a cup of tea. He gave the man a smile, even though he wished he had picked more food. “Come on, it’s in a freezer over by the bottled drinks.”

He snagged himself a bottle of sparkling water on the way to the freezer, which held stacks of ice cream cups with peel top covers. It wasn’t much—not like going to a nice ice cream parlour, certainly—but there were three varieties. “What flavour do you want? There’s vanilla, chocolate, and strawberry.”

Sherlock didn’t reply, standing in front of the freezer. He seemed stuck.

“I like chocolate,” Greg said, reaching in and grabbing a chocolate cup for himself. “If you want something a bit more plain, vanilla’s a safe bet. You can get more than one if you want, or just have a bite of mine, if you’d like to try it.”

Slowly, Sherlock nodded and fetched a cup of vanilla for himself. His fingers lingered over the frost covered top as the freezer slid shut again. “It’s… it’s okay if I try yours?”

“Of course.” Greg smiled, feeling immensely proud of him for picking something else out. As he led the way to their usual table an idea came to him. He waited until Sherlock had settled before scooping up a bit of his mashed potatoes. “Do you want to try some of this as well? Dunno what the secret is, but some days I think I could live off of just these.”

He grinned, offering the forkful across the table. Sherlock’s gaze flicked down to the bite, then to his face hesitatingly.

“Go on. You’ll love them.” It was possible that sharing food with a Dom was bringing back bad memories, but mostly Sherlock just seemed uncertain. After another second his fingers wrapped around the fork, taking it from Greg and transferring the potatoes to his mouth. The soft moan that escaped him was nearly lost beneath the rumble of the cafeteria around them. The pale column of his throat shifted as he swallowed and Greg forced himself to look away, not wanting Sherlock to feel overly observed.

“You’re right. They’re good.”  Sherlock passed the fork back, offering him a shy smile at the same time.

“You know you can go get a little bowl of your own if you’d like,” Greg suggested. Sherlock’s smile faltered and he reached for his apple. “They really are delicious.”

“Maybe tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow. I’ll hold you to that.” Greg let it rest for now, turning their conversation to how the day went and praising Sherlock for managing in the morning without using the beeper. It was incredible how well he had done on his own for the first time and he made sure to tell the sub that.

Sherlock relayed how therapy had gone and that having his books had made the time spent alone much more manageable. He finished his apple as they spoke and peeled open the top to his ice cream, trying it out with a tiny bite. Even though Greg hadn’t finished his own meal, he opened his cup of ice cream too, setting it on the edge of his tray so that Sherlock could sample the flavour.

He moaned again, that same soft, almost hum of pleasure on the first bite. He caught Greg watching and flushed pink.

“It’s alright. Try the chocolate. It’s even better.”

Sherlock did, carefully carving out a small spoonful. “That is good,” he said, as he licked the utensil clean. “I like them both.”

“On with each meal, then,” Greg pronounced, nudging his cup even closer to Sherlock and then changing the subject so that he wouldn’t be self-conscious. “I wanted to tell you—I heard back from the people that do the IQ testing. They can come in on Monday.”

“Okay.” Sherlock continued to make methodical progress on his cup of ice cream. “What about… you mentioned there were computer classes? Since I don’t know how those work? When is that happening?”

“Your first computer class was today.” Greg hadn’t told him what class specifically he’d be missing by choosing to stay in his room for the afternoon. Hopefully he’d be more inclined to try them out in the coming week. “But there will be another one. They’re all come as you are. Only the music class has levels, but you can join that at any time.”

He went on to explain that there were three class slots a day and that he could get Sherlock a calendar of what was when. He’d have to start attending soon, which was easier if there were things he was interested in, like the computer class.

“I also talked to Trevor— I think he’s a good match for your mentor,” he mentioned, as Sherlock carefully emptied out his cup of ice cream. “I’d like you two to meet on Monday. Maybe over lunch, after your testing?”

Sherlock nodded, saying nothing. Greg turned back to his meal.

“You want to go to the music room tonight?” he asked, once he’d finished eating. He’d taken longer than Sherlock and had insisted the sub eat the chocolate ice cream cup as well. Sherlock hadn’t taken much convincing.

“Please?”

They cleared their trays and headed that way. Sherlock very nearly took the lead, peeking into the room over Greg’s shoulder and then striding past him when it was clear they were alone. Greg grabbed a chair again, watching as the sub efficiently selected his instrument from the cubby and freed it from its case. As he prepared to play none of his movements were hesitant or uncertain. It was remarkable to watch.

Sherlock began a warm up routine that was obviously familiar to him, despite being kept from the violin for years. The scales and simple tunes flew from his hands with ease, and Greg sat back to listen, knowing that the young man would be entertained for hours.

Two hours into Sherlock’s practice session that Greg’s phone dinged with a text from his boss, requesting a meeting if he could be spared. It was unusual for Robinson to stay at the office so late in the day, but Greg was grateful for it. He had a feeling Sherlock wouldn’t mind him disappearing for a bit, not while he was so enamoured by the music.

“Hey Sher?” He hated to interrupt, all the same. “My boss wants a word—you mind if I pop off to meet with him, go over everything?”

Sherlock gave a little shrug. “Will you come back when you’re done?”

“Of course. Won’t be more than half an hour.”

The music started up again before he’d even made it to the door. He closed it gently behind him, hoping no one would disturb Sherlock and that Sherlock would remember his beeper if they did. The facility Doms would know well enough to leave him alone, but another sub might try to come in and use the music room. He wasn’t sure how Sherlock would handle that. Best make this meeting quick.

“Lestrade,” Robinson greeted him when he showed up outside the facility supervisor’s office. The door was open, a symbolic gesture to both the subs and Doms inside the facility that he was there to assist anyone in need—the type to work alongside the troops, rather than rule from on high. “Come in, please. I want to speak to you about our newest acquisition, but there is another matter that needs dealing with first.”

 

What Robinson wanted to discuss turned out to be an incident that had occurred earlier that afternoon at the facility, one that Greg had missed entirely. That woman, Crystal Jacobson, the one who had been emailing him about Malik, had actually showed up at St. Bart’s earlier that day.

She’d threatened the receptionist and terrified the sub assisting the desk for the afternoon, refusing to leave until she was allowed entry. Luckily, it was impossible for her gain access to the rest of the building without a key to the elevator. It had taken the police to remove her.

“We’ll be installing a panic button at the reception desk, to call local police,” Robinson informed him. “And suspending the reception assistant position for the subs, as I’m sure you understand.”

The sub that had been trapped with her-- one of Dimmock’s level fours-- had immediately gone to John, who was in a session with Malik.

“In his distress, Fitz wasn’t very discrete about what had happened,” Robinson explained, with a small frown. “Malik heard that Miss Jacobson had been here. He wanted to go with her.”

That was the worst part.

The sub had told them about the strict punishments, the uncaring behaviour and the unreasonable demands that had been made of him, but he had wanted to go with her. Her arrest made that impossible, at least. Greg was of the firm opinion that such an environment wasn’t good for a sub, and Robinson expressed his agreement.

Luckily John and Malik’s Dom in reserve, Harry Baynes, had been there for the man while Greg had been elsewhere. Personally he thought they ought to have called him—it was sheer chance he hadn’t heard the commotion—but Baynes and John knew what they were doing.

“If he doesn’t recognize that behaviour as abuse…”

“Dr Watson has recommended he return to level one for the time being.” Robinson folded his hands on top of his desk, looking grim. “Which puts rather a strain on your time.”

“I can’t leave Sherlock,” Greg said, shaking his head. “Not now—not when he doesn’t know anyone else.”

“Which is why Dr Watson has also recommended that Malik be officially transferred under Baynes’ care.” Robinson offered him a small smile. “I tend to trust his assessment. What do you think?”

The thought of handing over one of his subs to another Dom stung, but Greg knew it was the right choice. This option would get both subs the best care and that was what mattered in the end, far more than his pride. Now he would have one less under his care, which meant he could spend more of his attention on helping Sherlock. Malik could do with some one on one attention himself and Baynes would be good for him.

When he left Robinson’s office twenty minutes later, it was with confirmation that Malik would be transferred to Baynes and that Sherlock’s “watch week” would be extended to ten days, as his was the worst case of abuse they’d seen since Trevor, and he was sure they had barely scraped the tip of the iceberg.

 

It was a relief to return to the music room, though some of his agitation must have shown on his face when he entered, because Sherlock immediately lowered his violin.

“What’s wrong?” He looked so desperately worried that Greg wanted to wave him off, but honesty was the policy at St Bart’s, and knowing wouldn’t hurt Sherlock.

“One of my other subs,” he said, with a little sigh. “He’s having some trouble with the family that surrendered him. They want him back, but they don’t have any claim to him now. His old Dom’s sister came here earlier this afternoon asking for him.”

“She came here?” There was a flash of panic in Sherlock’s eyes at that, and Greg stepped over to him quickly, squeezing his shoulder.

“Unauthorized Doms can’t come in. She couldn’t get upstairs, got stuck at reception. The police have her now.” There was no reason for Sherlock to be worried about his own past coming back to haunt him. “We don’t just let anyone in. Doms have to be approved before they can come in.”

Sherlock relaxed a little beneath his hand.

“Anyway, sometimes subs that are in our rehabilitation program want to go back to their Doms, even when it’s not a good idea. We try to get them to graduate the program first, or go to their family instead if they really don’t want to stay here. But I know this sub doesn’t have any close living family. I think we’ve convinced him to stay, though he’s going to transfer to another Dom here at the centre.”

“You know?” Sherlock sat down, glancing up at Greg as he went. “You know who his family is? That’s something you do?”

“Yeah… why, what’s up, Sherlock?” Greg sat as well, gently lifting the violin out of Sherlock’s fidgeting hands and setting it aside. “I know your parents… sent you off at fifteen?”

In the silence that followed, Sherlock didn’t look at him. He squeezed his fingers together and shook his head, before finally saying. “It’s—it’s nothing.”

For now, Greg decided to let the topic drop. Sherlock had made remarkable progress over the past few days, and pushing him past what he wanted to volunteer wouldn’t do any good at this point. He looped an arm over Sherlock’s shoulders and gave him a quick squeeze. “Alright, then.”

“I memorized a song for you,” Sherlock offered, changing the subject and wriggling away. He stood and grabbed his instrument again. “Can I—?”

“I’d love that.” Sherlock seemed immediately calmer again, once he’d picked up the instrument and was assured that Greg wasn’t going to dig. Maybe he hadn’t expected Greg to drop the topic like that. He straightened up and lifted the violin to his chin, taking a deep breath before laying the bow to the strings.

It was beautiful. Greg recognized parts of the piece from the sub’s practice, but now he wasn’t in front of a music stand, didn’t even have his eyes open. Sherlock just played, swaying slightly as he stood, leaning in to the movements of his bow. For a full minute the music sang out; an incredible feat in both memorization and skill, and when the sub finally brought the piece to a close Greg applauded, grinning.

“You’re a star, Sherlock! My gosh, you’re fantastic. Molly’s not going to know what to do with you in class. You’ll run the bloody group!”

Sherlock’s cheeks tinted pink. “You think so? Thank you.”

“I really do. I wouldn’t lie to a sub, that would be terrible of me. You really are very talented.” Greg checked his watch. “Right, so we have about half an hour until lights out. What do you want to do? Play for a few more minutes before we head up?”

Sherlock shook his head, turning away to pack up the violin.

“No, I—I don’t think I can, tonight,” he said quietly. Greg frowned at that and Sherlock looked guilty. “I—my fingers.”

He held up his hand, and the fingertips were red and sore looking, from hours of pressing into the strings.

“I used to—” Sherlock stopped. He clenched his fist. “When I played more often, they weren’t as sensitive.”

“You can play whenever you want, now,” Greg said gently, taking the violin case from him and putting it into the correct cubby. He offered the sub an encouraging smile. “You’ll get your endurance back in no time. Want to head upstairs? Some of your things might’ve come in.”

When they stepped in to Sherlock’s room, he was proven correct: a fluffy brown blanket was folded on the end of the bed, with a soft dressing gown laid out beside it. The lamp was sitting on the desk, beside the journaling kit, which had come in a shrink-wrapped package, a small square box which held Sherlock’s new wristwatch, and a bottle of creamy shampoo.

“There we are, that’s lovely!” Greg grinned as he followed Sherlock inside. With his new belongings the room was beginning to look a bit more lived in. He was glad to see that Sherlock brightened a bit to see them, too. The sub picked up the blanket first and threw it around his shoulders like a cape. It was long enough to trail nearly to the floor.

“So… what’s the plan for tonight? Where am I sleeping, and where do you want to sleep? Any arrangement is fine. Up here in our respective beds, downstairs with me, or separate.”

He watched as Sherlock lowered himself onto his bed, wrapping his hands up in his blanket as he thought.

“Will you stay here with me? I don’t want to have to go downstairs to bother you in the middle of the night.” He glanced over at the desk to where his medicine sat, delivered earlier that afternoon. “And I have to take one of those too.”

“Yep, not a problem. I’m going to run down and get my things. You get ready for bed and take your medicine up here, alright?”

It didn’t take long for him to get ready for bed down in the guest suite, changing into his t-shirt and pyjama pants and cleaning his teeth. He brought his overnight bag upstairs with him and knocked Sherlock’s door when he’d returned to make sure the sub was decent.

Sherlock was in his own pyjamas, sitting on his bed. On the bedside table was a cup of water from the loo and one small tablet, freed from the bottle. Greg tucked his things under the cot that was still taking up most of the floorspace and sat down on it, facing Sherlock.

“You wanna talk about it?”

Sherlock bit his lip. “I wanted you to be here.”

He visibly steeled himself, grabbing the pill and the cup. It was obvious he wasn’t very accustomed to swallowing medicine. He choked for a moment and coughed, downing the entire glass of water before setting it aside. Immediately he pulled his otter into his lap, curling his arms around the chubby little stuffed toy.

“Alright?”

“I don’t like that sort of thing,” Sherlock confessed. “That’s what I was going to talk about with John tomorrow. Why I want you there.”

“Not a problem. Tomorrow, then. Thanks for being honest about it, Sherlock. You didn’t have to be and I appreciate it,” Greg told him, smiling gently. He swung his legs up and shifted beneath the covers of the cot. “You going to read until you pass out tonight?”

Sherlock turned on the bedside light and crept from his bed to shut off the overhead lights before diving under his covers, snuggling under both blankets. “I was thinking about it. It worked all right the last time… and I’d like to actually finish the story.”

“I’ll stay quiet, don’t worry,” Greg said around a yawn. “Hope you like the ending. You’re in for such a treat with that series.”

Sherlock sat up again, clutching the book to his chest and looking over at him with wide eyes. “It’s a series?”

“There’s about twenty titles and a telly program,” Greg chuckled. While it was a bit sad that Sherlock had been so sheltered that he didn’t know, it was going to be wonderful to watch him discover them. “Now, don’t worry about waking me tonight, if you need me. I hope you sleep better, though. Good night.”

“Good night,” he heard Sherlock whisper in reply, barely louder than the susurrus of pages turning in the dim light.

 

~

Greg woke to his alarm after a full night of sleep and no interruptions from Sherlock. A glance at the other bed revealed Sherlock still bundled up and fast asleep, despite the noise of the alarm, which Greg quickly shut off. He stood quietly and crept from the room with his things, making use of the communal bathroom to shower and get ready for the day. When he returned to Sherlock’s room fifteen minutes later, Sherlock hadn’t moved.

“Good morning,” Greg said, tone gentle as he approached the bed. He sat down on the edge and gave Sherlock’s shoulder a little nudge. “Sherlock?”

The sub’s dark hair curled over the pillow like rivulets of ink, and he turned his face a little more into his pillow before shifting and blinking up at Greg. When Sherlock’s eyes caught his they were soft, and a smile settled on his lips. “Morning.”

“Morning,” Greg said again, smiling at Sherlock’s slow, sleepy blinks. “How was last night?” Just because he hadn’t woken Greg didn’t mean his night had necessarily been a good one, though he looked much better off than the first night of his stay.

Sherlock inched up into a not quite sitting position, curling around Greg where he sat and slumping against his shoulder. It was the type of casual, trusting affection that Greg personally enjoyed, but not something he could often initiate with the subs for fear of overstepping boundaries. If Sherlock was seeking out physical affection, though… he put an arm out and rubbed his back gently.

“Slept okay. Nightmares weren’t too bad.” Sherlock’s voice was thick and low, and he’d closed his eyes again once he’d propped himself up against Greg. “Woke up a few times, but I fell asleep again.”

“Sometimes when the body is more relaxed the nightmares can’t form,” Greg said with a nod. “That or you can’t remember them. That’s really fantastic. Any side effects?”

“Feel groggy.” Sherlock gave a little half shrug and hid a yawn against his shoulder. “Still tired.”

“Mention that to John. He might bump your dose back a bit if it’s persistent.” Greg brushed a hand through Sherlock’s curls. “Did you want to head to breakfast, or do you need another hour or two?”

Sherlock sat back at that. “I can sleep in?” He smiled shyly. “I’d like that. You mind?”

“Not at all. I’ll get you up at ten, we can have some time to talk over brunch and then we’ll go see John. That sound alright?”

At Sherlock’s nod, he urged the sub to lay down again. As he moved, he found the sub detective book half under the pillow and moved it to the nightstand. Sherlock disappeared beneath the blankets for a moment and re-emerged with his stuffed otter, which he tucked under his arm.

“Do you want me to stay until you fall asleep?”

Sherlock nodded again, so he did, waiting until the sub’s breathing evened out again before getting up and heading out to check on the rest of his floor. Even then it was hard to pull himself away from Sherlock’s side. The way Sherlock had clung to him made his chest swell with affection for the sub.

 

He stopped in on Albin, a natural early riser who was just returning from breakfast. The young man always kept the door to his room open, preferring to keep an eye on the traffic outside.

“D’you have a minute?” he asked, pausing in the doorway. Albin nodded and stood, putting on the kettle for him. He’d gotten a personal set for his birthday a few months back and had confessed to Greg that he enjoyed the ritual of making tea for others.

“I read the report John sent me from your session with Irene the other day,” Greg said, not bothering to beat around the bush. “I know you were apprehensive after the first session, but I’m really proud of you for sticking through and trying again. John said it went really well.”

“Sugar, sir?” Albin asked.

“Ta.” He took the cup with a thanks, folding both hands around the warm porcelain. “Do you think it went well?” He watched as Albin prepared his own cup, his back to him, and mumbled a response.

“I didn’t catch that,” he said, bemused.

Finally, Albin turned around, pink-cheeked. “Yes. It was—good.”

“What part of it was good?” Greg pressed, hoping he would elaborate a little more, and that it was something they would be able to replicate next time.

“I-“ Albin’s blush deepened. He took a drink of his tea. “I—got to. You know…”

Greg waited, unembarrassed.

“Well, you read the report, didn’t you? John made us talk about it after—after it happened.”

“Communication is key,” Greg relented. “And I’m going to ask you to communicate with me all the way through this process, even if you find it embarrassing. There’s nothing to be embarrassed about, though. Many people find sexual intimacy an important part of their lives; part of the program is getting you used to what that means for you and getting you used to communicating about it.”

“That doesn’t mean I want to tell you exactly what… you know! What we did…” Albin protested, his cheeks going even redder.

“Normally, no,” Greg allowed. “But this is part of your therapy. If you were just going to bed with a Dom out of your own choice, then that would be something different. But you’ve got roadblocks and if we want to work through them, we have to talk about this sort of thing, and that means talking about what you and Irene, and any of the other Doms that come in for partner play, get up to. Once you get past that, we don’t have to talk about it ever again.”

Albin sighed and sank down onto the bed. “I get it. I just—it’s embarrassing. I know it shouldn’t be, but it is. It’s like—”

He broke off again, and Greg sat down beside him, bumping his shoulder. “Go on. Like what?”

“Like telling my dad what I’m getting up to between the sheets.” Albin glanced at him. “Just feels weird, because it’s you.”

Greg hesitated, taking a stalling sip of his tea. Beside him Albin did the same.

“Okay,” he said finally. “Are you going to be able to work with that—with me? Or is it going to be a problem? If it is, I can talk to Robinson and transfer you to another Acting Dom.”

It hurt to say. He’d been working with Albin for ten months, but if the sub wasn’t comfortable talking to him, then he would put in that transfer request.

“What? No!” Albin turned to face him more fully, pulling one leg up on the bed. “I don’t want another Dom. I’m just saying it’s weird, because it’s—you’re my Dom, but you’re not _my Dom_. You’re not like Lydia was, because you’re like—like my dad or something, and that’s not—you don’t talk about sex with family.”

Greg let his shoulders fall in relief. It was reassuring to hear that Albin considered him family.

“But you’ll try?”

“I’ll try,” the sub agreed, going pink again. He drained his tea and turned away from Greg, not looking at him. “It… it was good because she didn’t want anything but me to feel good. She touched me and—used her mouth on me. I got to touch her, too, and she made me come.”

“You’ve said in the past that your relationship with Lydia was about what you could give her—in and out of bed. It sounds like Irene could tell you deserved a chance to experience that pleasure for yourself for a change. I’m really glad you let her do that for you and that you enjoyed it.”

“Me too,” Albin said quietly. Greg smiled to himself and finished his tea in the few beats of silence that followed. “Is that it? Can we be done now, sir?”

Chuckling, Greg got to his feet. “Yeah, that’s enough for now. I’ll get out of your hair. Thanks, Albin.”

 

By the time Greg and Sherlock went for brunch the cafeteria was mostly empty. There was still plenty of food to choose from, and Greg got his full egg breakfast, but was disappointed to find Sherlock had picked out just a banana and a cup of tea. The extra rest had done the sub well, Greg could see it in the brightness of his eyes and the colour that was returning to his skin, but he still seemed subdued.

“So, how are you doing?” he asked as they sat down to eat.

 Across from him Sherlock methodically unpeeled his banana and deposited it on the plate, reaching for a fork to cut bite sized chunks from the whole. Greg waited. He was used to giving his charges room to talk. Sherlock made it through four forkfuls of fruit before he finally spoke.

“I’m not… looking forward to therapy,” he said, a bit haltingly.

Greg nodded to show he was listening and had a few more bites of his own breakfast. As usual, it was delicious.

“I’m… scared. Anxious.” One more bite, and Sherlock set down his fork, though there was still half a banana on his plate. He took his tea in both hands and sat back, drawing up his legs in his chair.

“Those are normal things to be feeling,” Greg assured him. “From the sound of it, today you’re going to tell us about something—unpleasant, yeah? But you’ve decided it’s important for us to know? I’m really proud of you, Sherlock, and grateful that you’re trusting us with this.”

Sherlock didn’t respond or meet his gaze, still frowning at his tea. The worst thing now would for him to decide not to tell them whatever this detail was. Greg had an inkling, and the more they knew, the more they could help—or at least not hurt.

“So, what we can do now is make a plan. How do we make this appointment as not-unpleasant as possible? What can we do to make you more comfortable? Because you’re clever, you’ve already taken the first step, asking me to join in so you don’t have to repeat yourself. I’ll be there with you and John. What else can we do?”

For a moment he thought Sherlock was going to ignore him, that the sub had shut down completely. Luckily he was wrong.

“Th-there’s a blanket,” Sherlock said quietly. “In John’s office. He lets me use it.”

“I’m sure he’ll let you use it today, too. Or you could bring your own, now you have that nice fuzzy spare from the catalogue.” He wiped his face with his napkin and put his hand out on the table, offering it to Sherlock. “John wants you to be comfortable and feel safe. He’d let you have your sessions in your bedroom if that would help, you know. Not forever, but if it makes today easier. Do you want to do that?”

Sherlock’s long fingers wrapped quickly around his own, and the pause was shorter this time. “No. I don’t want to talk about—bad things there. But maybe…”

“Maybe?” Greg prompted, smiling encouragingly.

“Could I bring my otter?”

“Absolutely. We’ll get him on our way up.” He gave Sherlock another soft smile and finished his meal. “It’s about time to head up. Ready to get this done?”

Though he was pale and shaking, Sherlock agreed. He didn’t let go of Greg’s hand the whole way.


End file.
